But the loss of himself? He would shed no tears for that. Stephen was still here, at least in part. So many good men weren’t.
He opened his eyes. At last, he wasn’t alone. There was Peter, who had died at Andersonville. Stephen had buried him, but here he was, a hallucination conjured up by his fevered mind. Normally Stephen would pinch his skin and watch the false image fade away.
“But given the circumstances”—he chuckled—“I don’t mind keeping you around.”
Peter was in his uniform, sitting on an overturned hardtack crate, warming his hands at the fire. “Hullo, Steve!” Light flashed on his polished brass buttons.
“Hello, old friend.” Tears coursed through the stubble on Stephen’s cheeks. He was talking to a figment of his imagination. Worse, he was enjoying it. “It sure is nice to see you again.”
“You don’t look too good, you know that?” Peter said.
“Well, that makes sense. I’m doing poorly, Pete.”
Peter took off his foraging cap and buffed the emblems on the bill before resettling it on his head. “Spread that on the table for me. You made it out. You survived the war, that hell of prison camp, and returned to your family. You’re lucky.”
Stephen shook his head. “I’m not so sure. You—or the man you represent—are in heaven. You’re in paradise. I’m trapped all over again.” Even if he were free of the asylum, he’d be trapped within himself. “I’d be better off in your locale, and my family would be better off without me too.”
Someone else might call the conversation ridiculous. On a different day, Stephen would agree. But right now, this was all he had, and he needed it. This wasn’t a living picture of the men Stephen had killed in battle, or the comrades he’d had to dump into a pit outside Andersonville’s stockade. This vision was not the mark of sainthood, nor was it a ghost who had come to haunt him. It was evidence of the sickness of his mind, and he accepted that.
The hallucinated version of Peter frowned. “Careful, now. Are you saying that after everything you’ve been through, you’re ready to call it quits? You would take your own life? What about your family? What would the girls say?”
“Suicide is a dreadful sin, Pete. I have no plans at present for it. And as for my family, my wife has gone ahead to glory.”
“I see. But your daughters. Are they not worth living for?”
Stephen’s current state of existence could hardly be called living.
Peter tossed another log onto the imaginary fire, and Stephen’s memory filled in the smell of smoke. “If I had my druthers,” Peter said, “I’d watch my children grow up. I’d protect them until they were no longer mine to shepherd, and I would—”
“That’s enough, Pete, thank you.” Stephen had already missed his daughters’ growing-up years. He’d failed to protect them and their interests, and didn’t need to be reminded. “As I said, Meg and Sylvie are better off without me.”
Peter mopped his perspiring brow. “Well, I don’t know about that. It would seem a crying shame if you squandered the life you get to live, though, when so many of us boys are lyin’ in an unmarked grave in Dixieland. Don’t disappoint us by giving up.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like here.”
“Don’t I?” The hallucination laughed. After all, this Peter was born from Stephen’s mind.
“What I mean is, there’s not much I can do while locked in an asylum, is there? I’m drugged by injection, force-fed pills I don’t want, dunked into baths full of ice, bound up and shut away by myself. They’ve taken my clothes, my name, my dignity. I’m at their mercy, and they don’t have much. What on earth can I possibly do here?”
Peter stood, brushing ash and bits of dried leaves from his trousers. “You can try.”
“Try what?” Stephen asked almost frantically, for the hallucination was fading. He could see the other side of the cell through Peter’s body.
“Try to get better.”
Chapter Nineteen
The bedchamber had become a cave devoid of light, which was just as well, since any shard of sun sent darts of pain through Meg’s head. Her sister was beside her in the bed, her feet like blocks of ice whenever they touched Meg beneath the sheets. And yet their pillowcases were sour with fever sweat. Greasy strands of hair stuck to her face. The hiss of the fire menaced beneath an incessant squeaking she realized only later was the mattress beneath her as she turned.
Whatever ailment had attacked had done so viciously and in equal measure between her and Sylvie. Half delirious, Meg sensed another presence in the room. The draperies around the bed must have parted, allowing a draft of cool air. The smell of lilac talc accompanied a soft murmuring and a damp cloth across her brow. In her mind’s eye, she saw Helene bustling from one side of the bed to the other, caring for two patients.
Someone else was there too. A man’s voice droned somewhere above Meg’s head. Then it stopped, and a circle of cold pressure sank against her chest. She wanted to brush it away or roll to her side, but someone held her still until the spot was gone. Uninterested in what the stranger was saying, she groaned beneath unbearable heat.
Time ceased. Meg had no idea what day it was, for night and day stitched into one continuous thread that unspooled at an unknown and irregular pace. When she was not wracked by cramping or retching, she fell into a fitful slumber.
Dreams slipped over and around her like water until she felt she might drown in false images. A strange man’s face appeared in the window, and though she’d never seen him before, she knew he was Otto Schneider bent on revenge. Encircling her bed, her mother, her father, and Sylvie stood together and recited in unison, You didn’t take care of me. Then fire blazed up like a wall between her and them, leaping onto her hands and chewing through her flesh. She awoke gasping for breath and itching like mad beneath scar tissue tough as leather.
When at last she could tolerate sunshine and sitting upright, Helene assisted her into the bathtub and washed her hair before helping her into a fresh shirtwaist and merino wool skirt. Sylvie had recovered ahead of her, for she was sitting on the settee when Meg emerged.
She wasn’t alone.
“Dr. Gilbert.” Meg took a seat beside Sylvie.
The doctor smiled warmly, his mustache bending. He gripped the two ends of the stethoscope that draped around his neck. “Miss Dressler came to the clinic and requested I make a house call. Tell me, how are you feeling today?” His fingers felt flat and dry as he probed at the glands in her neck.
“Fatigued,” she admitted. “My stomach has settled and my head doesn’t ache as it did, but I have little appetite. Perhaps a cup of tea?”
“Perhaps not,” Sylvie said, then nodded for Dr. Gilbert to explain. Helene stood off to the side, her face thatched with concern.
Tugging up his trousers, the doctor lowered himself to the armchair across from them. “Normally, a weak tea is just the thing for a convalescent. But in this case, the tea is the problem. That is, the water used to make the tea is the issue. It’s been making people sick all over the city for more than a week.”
“How are Kirstin, Eli, and Jasper?” Sylvie’s weakened voice had a distant quality. Her dark hair smelled like rosewater but lacked its usual luster.
Helene pinched a loose thread from her apron. “Kirstin and Eli have already come through it, but Mr. Davenport fell ill three days ago and suffers still.”
Dr. Gilbert laced his fingers. “You know that our water supply was cut off during the fire. The water pumps are working again now, but no one considered the effect of the dirt deposits in the pipes from the several days before water flowed through them again. That is, until now. Thousands are laid low, children most especially.”
Helene clucked her tongue and shook her head. “How long do we need to boil the water to render it safe? Or do we need to bring it in from the lake until the water pipes have been properly flushed?”
The doctor twisted the end of his mustache. “Boil the water you get from your own tap for
a good quarter hour before using it, and you should see marked improvement. In another week, the water will be safe to drink without that. Next order of business, young lady.” He looked at Meg’s hands.
Relief and dread filtered through her. “I thought we were going to wait until at least two weeks had passed.”
“And so we have. You were ill for several days, Miss Townsend. It’s time, at least for your left hand. The right will need a while yet.”
Gently, he unwound the linen until her hand was free. Helene supplied a basin of water in which to bathe it, then toweled it dry.
Meg barely felt it.
The hand looked only slightly different from the last time she’d been awake for a dressing change. The color was more pink than red or brown, but scar tissue webbed over her palm. She wiggled her fingers, noting the restricted movement.
“Try making a fist,” Dr. Gilbert said.
Meg did so.
“Good. Now try placing your palm against mine and pressing toward a flattened position. That’s it. Press until you can feel the stretch. Then press a little more.”
Sweat beaded Meg’s upper lip. Her hand would not obey her orders, at least in this direction. “I’m pushing,” she said when it wasn’t obvious.
“I’m sure you are. You must keep at it, my dear, to recover your range of motion. That scar tissue is constricting, curling your hand inward. Your brain will find ways to work around the limitations, but you must use your hand, stretching multiple times a day. Like this.”
Meg watched his demonstrations and mimicked them the best she could. The failed attempts mocked her.
“You can do this, Meg.” No trace of pity tainted Sylvie’s tone. “I have every confidence in you.”
“Perhaps you would like to help?” Dr. Gilbert showed Sylvie how to help stretch Meg’s fingers away from her palm, together and then one by one.
Meg flinched at the first touch of Sylvie’s beautiful, perfect skin against her gnarled flesh. “Will the sense of pressure return?” she asked the doctor.
“You’ll learn how to compensate for that and how to work with the sense that is left to you in that hand.”
That was a no. This aspect would never get better. Her hand wouldn’t straighten and could barely feel. When Sylvie stopped stretching, Meg’s fingers returned to a claw shape in her lap. Her throat burned with unshed tears.
Dr. Gilbert begged leave to check on Jasper, and Helene accompanied him from the room.
The door clicked behind them. Closing her eyes, Meg sank against the back of the settee. She was already repulsed by the sight and feel of her own flesh, and exposing the right hand would be even worse.
“This is progress,” Sylvie told her. “You must be content with that, at least for now.”
Progress was scant consolation when what Meg wanted from herself was perfection.
Chapter Twenty
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1871
“Nate.” Meg’s eyes stung at the sight of him. His face was pale from his own recent waterborne sickness, but his eyes were bright as he stood on the front porch, arms full of angular objects draped in linen.
As she realized what he’d brought, her bare left hand went to the gathering tightness in her chest.
He smiled. “I figured you’d be ready for this. May I come in?”
“Of course.” She led him into the reception room, bracing herself.
As she’d suspected, when he withdrew the linen, several blank canvases stared back at her.
He propped them up in a chair. “This size looked like what I remembered you using in your bookstore. Will these work?”
“Yes, of course, thank you. What a kind gesture.” It was a thoughtful, extravagant gift, and equally intimidating. Since Dr. Gilbert had come on Wednesday, she’d spent hours trying to write and sketch. While the effect was better than when she’d first started, it was far from pleasing.
“So you have all you need now, don’t you? To begin painting again?” He seemed so confident, so optimistic.
“A hand that obeys my direction is also helpful. Mine stumbles like a child’s.”
“And like a child, it will learn. You taught your right hand before. Now it’s the left’s turn.” Gently, he took it in both of his.
The top of her hand registered the touch. Her palm did to a lesser degree, giving her a surreal sense of disconnection. But what she did feel spread a balm over her nerves. Like it or not, she lived in a society that judged a woman by three things: the clarity of her complexion, the smallness of her waist, and the beauty of her graceful hands. Meg was freckled. Her waist betrayed a penchant for sweets. And now her hands . . .
But Nate didn’t recoil when he touched her.
“Besides,” he continued, “didn’t Michelangelo say that a man paints with his mind, not with his hands?”
“Easy for the most talented artistic genius of all time to say.” But Meg couldn’t help smiling in acknowledgment. Nate was trying, and she was more grateful than she could trust herself to express. “I’ll paint again soon,” she told him. “If I can manage anything acceptable, I’ll take the portraits to Mr. VanDyke, the gallery owner and art agent who posted that notice in the newspaper. He’s matching artists with wealthy patrons wishing to have their portraits remade after the fire.”
Nate released her hand. “I was hoping you might.”
But not yet. “Today I have other plans.”
With a quiet tap on the doorframe, Sylvie stepped into the reception room, smiling when she saw Nate. “I thought I heard voices. It’s good to see you, Nate. How are you feeling these days?” Glossy brown curls cascaded down her back from where her hair was gathered at the crown of her head. She’d been taking more care with her appearance since Jasper had recovered from the illness.
“Much better,” Nate told her.
“Glad to hear it. Meg, what’s this about you having plans for the day?”
Meg hadn’t thought it would matter to her sister at all. “I’m going to visit the Soldiers’ Home.” She’d already hired Eli to convey her. “There may be some veterans there who knew Hiram. Maybe they know something that could help us.”
The spark left Sylvie’s eyes. “Help us do what?”
“Well, I won’t know that until I learn what they know.”
A sigh fraught with impatience blew from Sylvie’s nose. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish. The police—”
“Aren’t doing anything,” Meg finished for her. “Maybe they’re looking for Otto Schneider, but even if they catch him, they won’t charge him with Hiram’s murder with only that threatening note to go on.”
“Nor should they,” Nate added. “Visiting the Soldiers’ Home is a good move. The more perspectives we gain, the better. As I said before, we don’t know Schneider did it. We should talk to as many people who knew Hiram as possible.”
“And the neighbors haven’t been helpful.” Meg had covered another block of them since recovering from her illness. It was time to pursue fresh sources.
“I see.” Sylvie folded her porcelain hands in front of her green silk skirt. “I won’t be going with you. And you cannot go on your own.”
“She won’t be.” Nate straightened his hat. “I know several of the men there, since I wrote that series of articles on Chicago’s veterans. I’m happy to make introductions.”
“Of course you are.” Sylvie’s tone bordered on impolite. “Meanwhile, I’ll stay home and do what I can to salvage the bookstore.”
Meg blinked. “What are you doing?” She’d assumed that at this stage, without a building, very little could be done.
“I’m strengthening customer relations. While you’ve been chasing your investigation, I’ve been scouring the papers, making note of changes of address for our customers. Now I’m writing each of them a personal card, assuring them we will reopen when we can, that we appreciate their continued patronage, and that we’d love their input on which volumes they’d like to see in stock. I want to make
them feel like they’re part of it. Anything to prevent business from completely drying up before we have a physical presence again.”
“That’s brilliant.” Nate rested one arm on the back of the wing chair and crossed his ankles.
“It is,” Meg agreed. “I’d help you with all that writing—you know I would—if my script were legible. I appreciate what you’re doing for us.”
“I’m not the only one working toward reconstruction. Jasper and his crew of classmates will finish clearing the rubble from our lot today and will be coming here for some refreshment as a token of our gratitude. They did the work at such a reasonable rate that I fear they meant to spare us the true cost. I had hoped you’d be here too. I know you can’t help me in the kitchen much, but you could at least convey your thanks to the men in person.”
“I’ll be sure to thank Jasper as soon as I see him next. Won’t you tell the other men thanks on my behalf?”
Sylvie narrowed her eyes with a look that said she’d been doing quite a lot on Meg’s behalf lately. “Did I tell you they found a small jewelry box under a pile of bricks yesterday? It’s broken, but Flora Spencer’s name is painted on the top. The jewelry is still inside it.”
“I don’t even know where the Spencers have gone.” Meg hadn’t seen their former tenants since the night of the fire.
“You could place a notice in the Tribune for her,” Nate offered. “If they’re still in the city, they can retrieve it. I’ll make sure it gets printed, if you like.”
Sylvie nodded, but her expression was stony, her throat taut.
“You have to believe that what I’m doing—talking to neighbors, visiting the Soldiers’ Home—all of that is for us too,” Meg tried. “Based on how Hiram’s neighbors have treated me, how do you think our bookshop will fare if we never clear Father’s name?”
Her sister’s gaze traveled to the canvases Nate had brought. “You could paint again. Whatever sales you make would help us too. Tangibly and immediately. We need to be earning and saving for reconstruction costs.”
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