She did not understand that right now, he felt no pain. Right now, he felt nothing at all.
Maybe it was better that way.
“Next letter,” Hugh said. “Are you ready?”
Stephen pulled his knees up again and rested his head on their bony caps. “Yes.”
Hugh sang it to a jaunty melody popular in saloons. This letter was longer. Meg’s bandage was off one hand, and she was using it again. He ought to feel happy for that, and yet there was only a slight stirring in his gut that might have been indigestion. If that was what happiness felt like, he could do without it. No happiness, no disappointment, no pain, no sorrow. The pendulum of emotion no longer swung in either direction. It was locked into place in the neutral middle.
The rest of the letter droned on. Something about an Asa Jones, a name that only faintly rang a bell. Meg expected Stephen home by spring. Spring? Stephen stared at the iron bars holding the rest of the world away. It would be easy to lose track of the seasons in here. Of time itself. He could not even think beyond the hour, let alone to next spring. Ah, so they’d taken in a cat. He closed his eyes again. That was good. He wondered for a brief moment how the stray dogs of the neighborhood were doing without him there to feed them. But then he remembered that the fire would have driven them away. The fire . . . Hiram’s murder . . . the reason he was here.
“Hey. Did you hear that? They love you very much and pray for you every day. You’re lucky they remain devoted to you.”
They shouldn’t. They were getting along fine without him. Hugh’s family was better off without him too, or so he had said. Stephen’s eyelids were so heavy. All he wanted to do was sleep and stay asleep.
With a jolt, the words of his hallucinated friend Peter rushed back to him. Try to get better, he’d said.
Stephen hugged his ankles. Drool puddled on his knee. I can’t.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 1871
Sunshine poured into the third-floor turret room, polishing the hardwood floor to a gleam. With windows on three sides, the space was cool even with a small fire frolicking behind its grate. The natural light, however, was perfect.
And that was where the perfection ended.
With her left hand wrapped around a piece of charcoal, Meg breathed in its earthy scent and looked from her reflection in the mirror to her sketch on the canvas beside it. Modest resemblance, indeed. Jasper had allowed her to use this storage room for a temporary studio, but she still didn’t feel like an artist.
During the week she’d been working here, she’d hoped the space would become like a sanctuary, as her old studio above the bookshop had been. Instead, it felt more like a crucible, a place of testing skill and spirit. During the daily dressing changes for her right hand, she’d seen enough to know it would never serve her the way it had. If she was to paint again, it was up to her left hand to do it.
Rocking her head from one shoulder to the other, she expelled a sigh and adjusted her grip on the charcoal. This was her third attempt at sketching a self-portrait. If she didn’t get it right, Mr. VanDyke would know it right away—and he was the one she must impress. If she did, he would match her with clients ready to pay for their own images. But so far, sketching without a perfect sense of touch was only slightly easier than forming letters.
Meg walked several paces away from the easel and tilted her head, studying it.
Rubbish. She saw in the sketch the mere impression of herself, not a copy.
A soft knock preceded Sylvie coming into the room. Tucking a book under her arm, she took Meg’s hand in hers and stretched it until Meg cringed. The painful part over, Sylvie began massaging, breaking up the tough scar tissue that layered Meg’s palm and fingers.
“That should do for now.” With a sly smile, Sylvie dragged an armchair into a soft beam of light and sat before opening the book on her lap. “You need a change of scenery,” she said. “I’m at your service.”
Guessing her sister’s purpose, Meg’s stomach quavered. “You want me to paint you?”
“I want you to practice, yes. Look what I found in the library.” She held up a copy of Charlotte Brontë’s Villette. “It’s a long book, and I can be quite still when I read. What else do you need in a model?”
Perhaps painting someone else would be better. At least this way, Mr. VanDyke wouldn’t be able to see how far Meg had missed the mark. After moving the mirror and leaning her own portrait against the wall, she set a fresh canvas on the easel.
Oliver Twist meandered into the studio and jumped onto Sylvie. The buff-colored cat curled into a ball on her lap, his tail wrapping around his body as he purred. As long as the cat was content to sleep and not explore shelves of paint tubes and jars of oil and medium, Meg saw no reason he couldn’t stay.
The soft sound of charcoal on canvas filled her ears. She mentally dissected the image of Sylvie’s head and transcribed it one line, one shape at a time. Forcing her hand to obey her mind was a slow and deliberate process. At least she didn’t drop the charcoal.
Shifting her gaze from the canvas, she regarded Sylvie with new perspective. There was a softness to her expression that hadn’t been there three weeks ago. Even the manner in which she interacted with Meg had evolved. It had grown lighter but not superficial, deeper without being darker. She suspected the change had more to do with a certain gentleman than with the suffering cat that came home with him the other day.
A tread on the stair interrupted them. Setting her charcoal on the easel’s ledge, Meg hurried to the door, unwilling to have an audience. If someone watched her work, they’d see not only her imperfect renderings, but they could stare at her scars as well. She wasn’t ready for that.
Kirstin held a pinafore she was hemming for a client. “It’s Mr. Pierce for you, miss. He’s visiting with Mr. Davenport, but he’s come to see both you and Miss Sylvie too.”
“Thank you, Kirstin. We’ll be along directly.”
Meg and Sylvie descended from the turret and found the men in the parlor. Jasper’s gaze searched out and settled on Sylvie. His illness had left him even thinner than before, but at least his color had improved.
Hat in hand, Nate turned as soon as Meg entered the room. “I don’t mean to interrupt your work. You were painting, weren’t you? How’s it going? Are you satisfied with your progress?”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you ask too many questions?” Meg smiled, hoping to deflect the topic, even as she slipped her hands into her skirt pockets. But, knowing he wouldn’t relent, she finally admitted that yes, she’d been working, and that no, she wasn’t satisfied.
“You have news for us?” Sylvie looked from one man to the other. “Has Otto Schneider been found?”
Nate hooked his thumb behind the strap of his satchel. “Not yet, as far as I know. I’ll swing by the police station after this and ask which jailbirds they’ve managed to recapture since the fire.”
Meg tried to hide her disappointment.
Oliver ambled into the room. Jasper scooped up the cat and rubbed behind his ears. He slid a glance at Nate. “Are you going to tell them why you’re here?”
“Right. I came to invite the three of you to join me for a benefit concert at Turner Hall this Sunday. Proceeds go to the Relief and Aid Society. Full disclosure: I’m covering the event for the paper, but I’d enjoy it much more with your company.”
Sylvie sparkled with anticipation. “I think it’s a fine idea. We haven’t been out—socially, anyway—in such a long time. Besides, it’s for a good cause.”
Jasper lowered the cat to the floor, then brushed fur off his clothing. “All excellent reasons for you to go. I’m afraid I must decline, however. I have an exam Monday morning that I need to study for.”
“Oh.” A crestfallen look stole over Sylvie’s face. “I can help you study, if you like.”
“Thank you, but no. Despite your good intentions, you’d only distract me. You’re far more interesting than municipal law.” He smiled. “You should go, though. Have a good ti
me.”
“We will,” Meg said, aware she was answering for Sylvie too.
“Good.” Nate grinned.
Before he could say anything else, a pounding on the front door moved Jasper to answer it.
“Can I help you?” His voice carried into the parlor.
“I beg your pardon,” came another man’s voice. “We’re looking for the Misses Townsend. This notice in the paper said they could be found here. They have something that belongs to us.”
“You must be the Spencers,” Jasper said. “Come in.”
Meg and Sylvie stepped into the hallway, Nate behind them, in time to see their former tenants, James and Flora Spencer, entering the house while Jasper introduced himself. Beneath a somewhat battered felt hat, Flora’s hair was far more silver than Meg remembered, her hands roped with veins.
“I’m so glad you’re all right.” Sylvie shook their hands, a formal gesture given the circumstance, but there had been no real affection between Townsends and Spencers.
Before James could reach to shake Meg’s hand too, she let him see that it was bandaged and not up to the task. “This is our friend Nathaniel Pierce, a reporter for the Tribune,” she said.
At the almost imperceptible shift in their expressions, she wondered again if one or both of them had penned the anonymous letter in the newspaper slandering her father.
She went to the hall stand and withdrew the small jewelry box from the drawer. “The lid is cracked and chipped, but we thought you’d still want to have it.” She set it in Flora’s open palm.
Tears rimmed Flora’s eyes as she withdrew a locket from inside. “The box must have fallen off the back of my bureau, otherwise I wouldn’t have left without it. I’m so glad to have it back, you’ve no idea.”
James doffed the hat from his bald, brown-spotted head. His old-fashioned suit hung loosely on his bowed frame. “You could have kept the box and pawned the jewels, not bothering to find a curmudgeonly old couple like us. We’re staying with Flo’s sister now, by the way. It does seem you’ve landed on your feet.” He waggled his eyebrows at his surroundings.
“Oh, this is temporary.” Meg glanced at Jasper, wondering if they’d yet worn out his hospitality. “We’re rebuilding the bookstore and apartment. We’ll be starting over.”
James crushed the brim of his hat. “A daunting prospect for two young ladies. It’s a shame your father isn’t here to help you.”
Meg struggled to mask her surprise. Even Sylvie faltered, her eyebrows tenting before she schooled her expression once more. “It is,” she said. “A shame indeed.”
Flora slipped the jewelry box into her reticule. “We ought to tell them, James. Tell them what we saw the night of the fire.”
Meg’s heart leapt at the possibility of more information. “Won’t you come sit down?” She invited them into the front parlor before realizing that was Jasper’s place, not hers. This was not her home. “If that’s quite all right?” she asked him.
He said it was.
They took their seats in the parlor, where the crimson draperies absorbed the natural light. The hearth was cold without a fire, so seldom was the room used. But at least the gaslights were working again. Jasper turned them on, a rare indulgence for a household without steady income.
His russet hair catching in the light, Nate took out his pencil and paper. “You don’t mind, do you? I have a feeling I’ll want to remember what you say.”
Flora licked her papery, pleated lips. “Is this—are you going to put this in an article?”
James grunted. “Maybe he ought to. If they won’t print it, we could send a letter to the editor ourselves.” His gaze darted to Sylvie, then Meg. “This time we’d even sign our names.”
Warmth flooding her face, Meg turned to the window while regaining her composure. Fog rolled over the ground, catching on trees and fences, blotting the distance from view.
“You knew already, didn’t you?” James asked. “You must have suspected.”
“We did.” A pulse of anger throbbed beneath Meg’s skin. But these people had information she wanted. At least, she hoped so.
Flora shook her head, a wilted feather bobbing with the movement. “It hasn’t been easy living so near a man so unpredictable and knowing he was our landlord. But that letter—well, we took it too far. You thought so too, I daresay, and yet you returned my most precious belonging to me.” She clutched the beaded reticule in her lap.
Meg wiped her left palm on her skirt. “I appreciate that, Mrs. Spencer. But there’s something else you wish to tell us?”
Jasper leaned forward, his dark trousers a stark contrast to the ochre stripes of the settee.
“We saw Stephen the night of the fire.” James cleared his throat and frowned. “We saw him lashing out at folks, yelling at babies to hush. He accused a man or two of being a Rebel. All of that is God’s truth. But we also saw a fellow take particular offense to his ravings—understandable, given Stephen was pointing a gun at him. The man knocked it out of his hand, then knocked him out cold with a blow to his head.”
So far, this wasn’t what Meg wanted to hear. “And then? What happened next?”
“The man scooped up Stephen’s gun, spun the chambers to check for bullets, and ran off with it. Both of us saw it, didn’t we, Flo?” James scratched the side of his nose. “I have said a lot of things about your father, I own that. Now I’ll say this. If his gun was the one that killed that man, like the papers said, he wasn’t the man who pulled the trigger.”
Meg felt her pulse at the base of her neck. “You’re sure of what you saw?” she whispered.
“As sure as I am of you sitting before me now.”
Flora grasped James’s hand. “You ought to know. You ought to know your father didn’t shoot that man.”
Sylvie turned to Jasper. “He didn’t kill your uncle. I hoped so desperately that he didn’t, but now we know, Jasper. It wasn’t my father who did it.”
Tears of gratitude streamed down Meg’s cheeks. Nate offered her his handkerchief, then squeezed her shoulder while she wiped her face. “Thank you,” she said. She had never believed her father killed Hiram, but hearing this from the Spencers, of all people, brought relief she hadn’t felt before.
“Will you tell the police what you’ve told us?” Nate asked. “They seem to put a great deal of stock in witness statements for this case, since the so-called evidence is circumstantial.”
“You’ll be directly contradicting previous statements,” Meg warned, “but that’s no reason not to offer your perspective. If you don’t mind, could you send a letter to the Cook County Insane Asylum too? Address it to Dr. Franklin.”
“We’ll do it.” Flora sniffed and gave a tremulous smile.
“We ought to have done it sooner,” James added, “but we’ve been caught up in our own affairs. Losing everything will do that to you.”
Jasper extended a hand to help him out of the armchair. “Thank you for coming. Thank you for sharing what you saw.” He’d paled in the last few minutes. His uncle’s murderer was still at large.
But for Meg, the case against her father was officially closed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1871
Sylvie sat straighter in the folding chair in Turner Hall’s gymnasium to relieve pressure from the stays digging into her ribs. It was such a pity it was only Meg and Nate with her and not Jasper, for it wasn’t often she wore so fine a gown. Lavender silk with royal purple ribbon trim made her feel like she was dressed in twilight. Meg wore dark blue with a lighter shade brocade in a Grecian key pattern. She was the color of the lake bordered with sky, her upswept blond hair the sun. Sylvie had found both gowns this week in a giant pile of donated clothing in the basement of the First Congregational Church, where she continued to volunteer. But after tonight, she couldn’t guess the next occasion that would warrant such gowns. She and her sister were simple women, better suited to sensible wool than to satin.
Especially on
ce they moved.
Friday’s mail had brought the news that they’d been approved for a shelter house and that materials would be delivered by eight o’clock Monday morning, along with a construction crew who were to be paid only for their time. By way of apology for the delay, the letter mentioned that the aid society had received 6,259 applications and that theirs was the 4,564th one to be approved. So their time in Hiram’s house was drawing to an end. Her time with Jasper was too.
The heat from the tittering crowd defied the chill outdoors and cloyed with clashing scents of perfumes and pomades. Waving a fan to stir a breeze, Sylvie glanced at Meg, whose attention was focused solely on whatever Nate was saying. Just as well. Sylvie was lost in her own thoughts, all of which centered on Jasper.
Was she a fool to believe there was something growing between them? Something rippled through her middle at the thought of his kindness. She didn’t think this was a mere fancy. At least, she hoped it wasn’t.
After she’d recovered from the water sickness, but while Meg was still laid low and Kirstin was convalescing, Sylvie had slipped down the corridor and into the wing that held Jasper’s bedchamber. Helene had fallen asleep keeping watch over Meg, and all Sylvie wanted to do was check on Jasper without rousing the dear housekeeper who had been acting as nursemaid for them all.
Jasper had been delirious with fever, and she’d bathed his brow with cool cloths. In his sleep he muttered words that made no sense. She had tried to calm him, but he wouldn’t be still. Then he’d said, “I’m cold. It’s so very cold.” This, she’d understood. She stoked the fire and laid another wool blanket over him. He kicked it off.
Three toes were missing on one foot, and two from the other. Shock had stolen only a few moments before she’d tucked the blankets beneath the mattress to keep them in place.
When at last Jasper had opened his glassy eyes, he’d caught her wrist and said, “Don’t go. Angel of mercy, don’t leave me.”
She’d stayed for hours that night. He asked her to sing to him, and she did. He requested a few songs she didn’t know, then tried singing them himself.
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