Dr. Franklin exhaled a sharp sigh. Nonetheless, he led Nate and Meg into the adjoining office. Framed diplomas hung on the wall behind a desk that was clear of everything but blotter, inkwell, and a tray piled high with correspondence. Besides the door from the reception room, another led to the hall.
“Sit.” He circled the desk and did the same, the smell of medicine lifting from his white coat.
Nate removed his hat, placing it on his knee while they settled into the hard chairs. Meg sat ramrod straight.
“You understand this is a public institution,” Dr. Franklin began. “As a veteran, the patient receives free care. As you are not paying for it, we are not beholden or obligated to answer to you in any way.”
Meg’s cheeks flamed the color of poppies.
“You’re beholden to the public,” Nate inserted. “We are the public too, are we not? The readers of the Chicago Tribune are your public. They would be very interested to learn if a psychiatrist here is deliberately withholding information about a family member.”
“I doubt that, with the fire and rebuilding efforts foremost on everyone’s mind.”
“Shall we test the theory?” Nate smiled, but he knew he was walking a tightrope between motivating and antagonizing Dr. Franklin.
“Please,” Meg interrupted. “Tell me what you can. What are you doing for my father, and how long do you expect the treatment to take?”
At length, the doctor responded. “283 suffers from a condition—”
“Excuse me,” she interjected. “283?”
“Patients are assigned numbers upon their arrival. His number is 283. I’m a busy man, so if you insist on interrupting, I’ll have to end our interview.”
The slight lift of her chin was defiant.
“As I was saying. Patient 283 suffers from a condition called soldier’s heart. In my experience, it is a chronic illness without cure. The heart was overly strained during the war and most specifically during his time at Andersonville prison camp. So the erratic and rapid heartbeat and other symptoms often associated with anxiety lead to other manifestations. Insomnia. Paranoia. Irrational thinking and behavior. There are many documented cases across the country.”
Meg allowed a few beats of quiet to pass. “What happens next?”
“If you’re asking me to predict the future of 283, I won’t do it.”
“The other cases, then,” Nate said, struggling to mask his growing irritation at the doctor’s blunt retorts. “What happened to other men who have had soldier’s heart?”
Dr. Franklin opened a drawer in his desk, located a file, and slapped the manila folder on the blotter just as a knock sounded at the door from the hall. “Yes?”
An attendant in a white uniform stepped one foot inside. “Doctor, we have a—an issue we need to consult you on. A matter of some urgency.”
Dr. Franklin left the office and closed the door behind him. Nate could tell the two men had moved a few paces away by the sound of their voices.
“Look!” Meg whispered, jerking her head toward the file.
Nate slid the folder toward him and opened it. These weren’t confidential patient records, they were newspaper clippings and some typewritten notes. He parsed the text.
A soldier from the 16th Connecticut had come home from the war so broken in body and mind that he didn’t know his own name. He flailed in his sleep, dreaming that he was still searching for food at Andersonville. He perished at age twenty-two.
Nate flipped to the next page, this one with a heading of Indiana Hospital for the Insane. A bulleted list identified a veteran inmate who sobbed and cried and imagined that the Rebels were after him. Others were committed because they had barricaded themselves in their rooms.
His dismay deepened the more he read. Neither these veterans nor their families had had any idea they would sacrifice their sanity in service to their country.
In Utica, New York, a patient could not be soothed by his wooden cage but beat his limbs against it until he was bruised, shouting at invisible soldiers and driving phantom horses all the while. He died at the age of twenty-three.
But it was the next clipping that chilled Nate’s bones. A veteran had killed a man with no recollection of having done it. He later killed himself in Sing Sing Prison.
“What does it say?” Meg leaned toward him, her arm brushing his.
Nate realigned the papers and closed the folder, sliding it back onto the desk. “I’ll tell you later.”
He couldn’t bring himself to look at her wide hazel eyes for more than a moment. He wouldn’t lie to Meg, but how could he tell her the entire truth? Was it right to tell her just part of it? That didn’t sit well either.
The door opened again, and Dr. Franklin leaned into the office. “Our time together has come to an end.”
Her chair scraped the floor as Meg stood. “But what about my father? Can’t you tell me anything about the prognosis at all?”
“I can tell you that most cases like his stay at the asylum for the rest of their lives, however short or long that may be.”
Meg looked as though she’d been struck. Tears filled her eyes, and she looked away.
“Do not come back, Miss Townsend. Should you need to say anything further, send it by post. Good day.”
Bristling once more, Nate reseated his hat and brought Meg to the carriage outside. A miserly rain misted his face and clung in beads to the windows. He handed her up and followed her in. The pungent smell of moldering leaves and sodden earth permeated the air even inside the carriage.
A single tear ran down her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping it away with her wrist. “I promised my mother I’d take care of him, and—well, I’m not doing it. I don’t know how to fix this. Tell me what you read in the file, at least.”
He couldn’t. At least not right now. “That information was collected about other people. Your father is an individual. It’s best not to judge him based on other cases.”
Did he know her well enough yet to tell her that fixing her father’s situation was beyond her power, just as his stepbrother Andrew’s character had proven to be beyond his?
He wished he did. For he saw in her the weight of responsibility for her family. He saw in her himself.
Chapter Fourteen
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1871
Dear Father,
This is Sylvie. I send you my greetings, but Meg is dictating this letter to me because she can’t hold a pen yet.
Nathaniel Pierce and I came to the asylum today to learn what we could about your situation. Did they tell you? I didn’t see the rooms, so I don’t know if they are kept warm and clean enough, or if you get enough to eat. If there is any problem, find a way to let me know.
Sylvie and I are staying with Jasper Davenport in Hiram’s house now, so you may address any mail to us here. Helene and Kirstin still live at the house too, and Eli lives in the carriage house.
We (Sylvie and I) went to church on Sunday, but not here in the Prairie Avenue neighborhood. It didn’t seem right to worship in a place untouched by the fire, with a congregation we don’t know. So we went to Unity Church, or what’s left of it, where Reverend Collyer led a service inside the charred walls of his sanctuary, the open sky a canopy above our heads. He stood on a carved stone that had fallen from an arch as he addressed us. I wish you could have heard him. Sylvie took notes so we could remember. We wanted to share a few lines with you. He said:
“Some men of a stronger heart are, perhaps, able to thank God for this great affliction. I, myself, have tried to find some altitude of soul, some height of moral sentiment, from which I might look down and thank God for overshadowing us with this great sorrow. . . . But I cannot get up to it this morning. . . . It is too near. We will thank God as soon as we can.”
I hope that somehow, you might draw comfort from that, as we have. Our afflictions are too near. We will thank God as soon as we can.
And we’ll get you out of there as soon as we can too.
Meg
P.S. This is Sylvie again. Meg says you have a condition called soldier’s heart. Please do whatever the doctors say you must to get better.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1871
The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee greeted Sylvie as she entered the kitchen. Last night’s nightmare was no different than it had been every night since the fire, but at least she’d recognized she was only dreaming, that the city wasn’t on fire all over again, no matter what she saw and felt in her mind. That was progress.
Sun slanted through the windows and flashed on copper pans hanging above the fireplace. Replacing a flour-dusted apron with a fresh one, Helene smiled as she tied the strings behind her waist. “Good morning,” she said, “and good news. The water pumps are working again. We shall have as much coffee and tea as you wish now, not to mention enough for a proper bath. After nine days of drinking lake water, I expect you’re ready for a cup of tea that doesn’t taste like fish.”
“I am. But a bracing cup of coffee will be just the thing this morning, if you’ve made enough. And if there is bread, one thick slice will do.”
“Oh dear.” Helene slid her gaze toward the stove, upon which sat a tray of blackened biscuits. “I’m not sure I’d call that bread, but it once aspired to be. You must forgive me, Miss Sylvie. This old housekeeper knows more about polish than baking.”
“That’s all right.” Sylvie plucked up a roll, tossed it in the air, and caught it. “I haven’t much practice at baking either, since we had a lovely bakery down the block from our bookshop. They made everything so well, our mother didn’t bother teaching us.”
Closing her eyes, she could almost smell the breads, milk rolls, soft pretzels, strudel, and the American-style pies Hoffman’s Bakery had perfected. She missed it. She missed sharing a plate of Berliners there with Rosemary and Beth. She missed home and her friends with such a sudden stab that she found herself blinking back tears.
They’d called on her yesterday, having seen the notice in the paper about her whereabouts. They’d come to say good-bye. Their families had decided to start over somewhere else, where they had relatives they could live with until they got their feet under them again. Likely they were on the train even now. Sylvie did not make friends easily. To lose these two at once hurt more than she could say.
With a forced brightness, she smiled at Helene. “In any case, it’s my turn to try baking for tomorrow.”
“Very good, Miss Sylvie.” Helene brushed some lint from her apron. “Will you be enjoying your rock-hard roll in the dining room this morning?”
“No.” Sylvie giggled. “Right here is fine.” She slid onto the bench at the broad worktable as Helene poured her coffee.
Jasper’s tread announced him even before he entered the kitchen. Upon seeing Sylvie, he smiled. “Going somewhere?”
Her hands flew to the jacket she wore. “Oh. Yes, soon.”
Accepting a cup of coffee from Helene, he eased onto the bench opposite her. “Not alone, though.” The way his voice lifted at the end made the statement more of a question.
She stifled the urge to shrug. “I suppose I am,” she said instead. She took a drink, and her brow wrinkled before she could stop herself.
“That bad?” he whispered.
“It isn’t lake water anymore,” she told him. “Perhaps I’ve grown unaccustomed to coffee made with water from the pipes.”
He took a drink of his own. “I had worse during the war. Much worse. Is that hardtack you’re feasting on there?” He picked up her roll and knocked it on the table.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Helene threw up her hands in mock despair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to perform some tasks that actually do fall under my expertise.”
Jasper chuckled as he watched her go. He seemed different here in the kitchen, like his hard edges had melted away. Sylvie snatched the roll back from him and tried breaking it apart.
“Try dipping it into the coffee,” he suggested.
She did so. “A war trick?”
“Something like that. Don’t bother trying to be dignified when you eat it either. Not on my account. Although I’d be entertained to see you try.”
Leaning back, he grabbed his own roll from the stovetop, then dunked it into his mug. “Now, about you leaving the house alone. Where I come from, it isn’t done. What business do you have, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m going to a church to sew or sort donated clothing—anything to be helpful when so many are in need.”
“And anything to get out of this house?” There was no malice in his tone.
A fresh wave of homesickness rushed over her. “I don’t really belong here. I’m grateful for it, but I . . .” She lifted the roll from her coffee and watched it drip back into the mug. Her appetite waned. “I’m restless.”
“And homesick?”
“Desperately so.” She found in his eyes an understanding that untied a knot between her shoulders. “My two best friends are moving away. I know better than to admit to Meg how much I ache for them. She’s managed without close friends for so long that I don’t expect her to sympathize. Especially since she has her own problems with her injuries.” They had looked better during the dressing change this morning, but the right hand’s prospect seemed bleak.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “But you’re still allowed to feel homesick. You’re allowed to miss your friends.”
“Emily Brontë struggled dreadfully with homesickness. She tried going away to school where her older sister Charlotte was a teacher, but she became so physically ill from missing home that she returned after only three months. Isn’t that interesting, that she had her sister with her, yet it wasn’t enough?” In this, Sylvie felt some validation.
Jasper watched her intently. “Are these friends of yours? Emily and Charlotte?”
She smiled at him. “In a manner of speaking, yes. They wrote some of my favorite books. Women’s novels,” she quickly added, in case he felt embarrassed at not being familiar with them. “Do you miss your friends while you’re here for school? Are you homesick too?”
He blinked in surprise at her query. “I didn’t leave behind much that I ever loved. Just memories of the way things were in better times. We fell into hardship years ago and couldn’t fight our way out of it, though not for lack of trying. I don’t like talking about it. I don’t belong here much more than you do, Sylvie.”
The sound of her name in his voice rippled through her. Was this how Jane Eyre had felt with Mr. Rochester? Sylvie scolded herself for conjuring fiction when flesh and blood sat before her, taking her in.
No one else was in the room. But surely if Helene had thought the situation warranted a chaperone, she’d have found a reason to stay. Surely Sylvie was being ridiculous. This was breakfast by chance in the basement kitchen with scorched rolls and terrible coffee.
Nibbling at the bread sent a dribbling of liquid down her chin, and she wiped it away along with any girlish notions of a budding connection. Possessing herself, she sipped her coffee. “What do you mean, you don’t belong here?”
“I’m not from a big city, for one. This is my first time in Chicago. The people here move a lot faster than I’m accustomed to. But it’s more than that.” He spun a ring on his finger and then took it off, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb. It had been Hiram’s. “My grandmother had a falling out with Uncle Hiram long ago, and out of loyalty to her, I cut off communication with him too. My grandmother raised me, and when she passed away, I resolved to reconcile with my great-uncle. I wrote to him, and he replied with an invitation. I swallowed my pride and came.”
“He was so glad you did.” So was she.
Jasper took a drink of coffee. “He was, and it took the sting out of our arrangement. He paid for my tuition to law school. At least the first semester. As soon as I expressed an interest in it, he insisted on securing the education I hadn’t been able to acquire on my own.”
&nb
sp; Sylvie exhaled slowly, tucking this information away to share with Meg later. “That sounds exactly like something he would do. He paid for Meg’s membership at the Chicago Academy of Design so she could take painting classes there when it opened a few years ago.”
If there had been a shred of doubt about Jasper’s innocence, this dissolved it. No one would kill the man who was funding their education. But did this also cinch the guilt around her father? She hated to think so. For how could she ever face Jasper again, let alone be at ease with him, if her father had truly murdered Hiram?
“I’m an ordinary man pursuing a second chance at a future worth having,” he said. “That’s why I’m here and in law school.”
“A second chance,” Sylvie repeated. “I think we all want that, the entire city of Chicago. And I would like to do my part rather than sit and stew over my losses.” Heat crawled under her collar. She’d been wearing her jacket indoors too long. “I really should be going.”
Jasper downed the rest of his coffee and stood. “I’ll take you. I don’t have class until this afternoon.”
Sylvie moved the dirty dishes to the sink. “Are you certain?”
“Regardless of how I view the mayor’s methods of keeping order, he believes the dangers warrant martial law. Yes, I’m certain.” He tipped his head to one side. “Your surprise is plain on your face. I’m almost insulted.”
“I thought—after what happened with your uncle and what’s being said—you would feel no obligation to take pains on our account,” she stammered. “Especially since you’ve already opened your house to us.”
He straightened the necktie at his collar. “It is not you and your sister who are on trial. And I’m no brute, Sylvie. It would bring me no pleasure to learn you’ve been accosted in the street when it’s in my power to escort you safely.”
Jasper Davenport might be poor in money, but he was rich in manners and Christian feeling. Meg was wrong to have ever doubted him.
“Shall we?” A tentative smile returned to his face.
Sylvie had no wish to refuse him.
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