Veiled in Smoke

by Jocelyn Green

  Oliver darted into the room and onto the table, skidding dangerously close to the document. Sylvie scooped up the purring cat. “I’m so happy for you,” she said. “This means you can stay and finish your law degree!” The cat squirmed, and she lowered him to the carpet.

  “This means a lot of things. I just need to find another attorney to execute the will, now that Grosvenor has passed.” Jasper shook his head, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “And I would really like the police to find Otto Schneider, or whoever it was that broke in on Sunday. Otherwise I have a hunch he’ll be back. Eli has taken permanent employment elsewhere, by the way, and I don’t blame him. But that means I’m alone here now.”

  Meg nodded. She was sorry she hadn’t said good-bye to the faithful carriage driver but was glad to hear he’d found a stable position. “Where did you find it?” The cat rubbed against her ankles, then wandered off in favor of a spot on the warm hearth.

  “It was in this room the entire time. Folded and tucked into a book about Roman history, of all things. Little wonder I didn’t find it until now.”

  “Yes, quite.” Meg scanned the shelves upon shelves of books. She had been on the right track when she searched some volumes in Hiram’s study. If she’d only brought her method to the library instead, she would have found the will far sooner.

  Knowing all of this belonged to Jasper now brought a finality to Hiram’s death that hadn’t locked into place before this moment. Bringing her gaze back to him, she pasted on a smile. This was the resolution everyone needed, after all. “I’ll finish Sylvie’s portrait today, and then we’ll be out of your way.”

  Jasper cocked an eyebrow. “Until you come back to paint again, you mean.”

  Sylvie fiddled with the trim on her sleeve. “We received word this morning that our new home is ready for us to move into. We don’t need to come back after today.” But there was a pleading in her eyes for him or Meg to say otherwise.

  Cupping an elbow in his palm, he tapped a long finger on his cheek. “You still need to practice portraits, don’t you?”

  Meg told him she did. One sample was certainly not enough to impress Mr. VanDyke at the art gallery.

  “Paint me,” Jasper said. “Your supplies are already arranged upstairs. This will give you time and space to get settled into your new quarters before designating part of it as a studio. Consider it a commission, Meg. I’ll pay you for it when it’s done.”

  “What a grand idea.” Sylvie’s response was so swift, Meg nearly laughed.

  But in this case, she had to agree. “After I finish Sylvie’s portrait, I’d like it to stay here and dry before we move it. If you have time tomorrow, I can begin to sketch you. But first, I must ask—have you seen the portrait upstairs?” If he wasn’t satisfied, she couldn’t accept him paying for his own.

  “Don’t be cross with me, Meg, but yes, I looked. Rest assured, I liked what I saw.” He glanced at Sylvie, who colored to the shade of poppies as she returned his smile. She seemed very pleased by his approval.

  That settled, the Townsend sisters ascended to the studio in the turret. Inhaling the smells of turpentine and linseed oil, Meg donned an apron, since she was liable to drop the paintbrush, then squeezed a portion of ivory black onto her palette.

  “What a relief to finally have the will found.” Sylvie opened the drapes, then sat and arranged her skirt. “I didn’t know what to think, after what Mother wrote in her journal. But the date on the will was after she died, so it must be the most recent version.”

  “I noticed that too,” Meg murmured and then immersed herself in her task. A low fire smoldered behind the grate, barely taking the chill off the room. She fed wood to it and watched the flames revive.

  Returning to the palette, she mixed the black paint with enough medium to create a thin glaze, then layered it over the background.

  Sylvie looked up from Villette and let her gaze wander over the molded plaster ceiling. “I wonder if Jasper will keep the house or sell it,” she mused.

  “Ask him.” With a large dry brush, Meg blended the background, letting the underpaint show through. She then painted over the rest of the figure and head with a coat of medium and a touch of ivory black, then blended that with a dry brush too. Studying her sister’s face, Meg backed up from the portrait to gain perspective, then approached again. With a dry, clean cloth, she wiped out the highlights on the face on the canvas.

  Keeping her posture immobile, Sylvie slid her a sideways glance. “Are you erasing me now?”

  “It’s Rembrandt’s technique,” Meg told her. “When you wipe out the highlights, the thin black glaze is forced down into the crevices of the brush strokes. It gives the appearance of even more relief than it already has. That’s what makes it lifelike.” At least, that was the goal. Cloth in hand, she put a fist to her hip and stood back.

  Marking her place in the book with her finger, Sylvie rose and circled around to face the portrait.

  “It’s no Rembrandt,” Meg said.

  Sylvie cocked her head to one side. “You’re right. This is a Meg Townsend original.”

  “Very clever.”

  “I mean it, Meg. It’s not the same style you used to have, but it’s beautiful in its own way. It’s softer. And the farther away you stand from it . . .” She backed up several paces.

  “The better it looks?” Meg laughed, but the comment stung, for there was truth in it. The lines were not as precise, nor the details as fine. If time and money were not issues, she would spend months practicing before showing anything to Mr. VanDyke. But she couldn’t afford to take that long. She’d have to expose her art, and herself, for what she was and wasn’t. “Maybe I can get Mr. VanDyke to view it from across the street before he makes his decision.”

  While Sylvie tried to rephrase what she was trying to say, Meg accidentally dropped the cloth she’d been holding. Kneeling, she quickly rubbed away the black smudge it left on the wooden floor.

  The sun glinted on a sliver wedged between two floorboards. She traced the spot with her fingertip but couldn’t sense from the touch what it was. “Sylvie, look at this. Can you get it out?”

  Sylvie knelt. When she failed to dislodge the shining item with her fingernail, she pulled a pin from her hair and used it as a lever. A coin popped out of the crevice and rolled across the floor. She held it up, rubbing its embossed surface with her thumb. “It’s gold. But—read this.”

  Meg squinted at the curving text on the back of the coin. Confederate States of America. She felt the color drain from her face as the story Elton Burke had told her at the Soldiers’ Home came rushing back to her. Had Hiram’s patriotism, and his friendship with her father, truly pushed him to cross a moral line?

  “Why would Hiram have Confederate gold?” Sylvie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Meg whispered. “All I can tell you is what his fellow prison guard told me. It was only a rumor, with no proof at all, so I didn’t believe it then. I don’t know if I can bring myself to believe it even now. But Mr. Burke said Hiram stole from the prisoners at Camp Douglas.”

  Ridges pleated Sylvie’s brow. “That doesn’t make sense. Besides the fact that Hiram wouldn’t do something that low, he had no need for more wealth. Jasper might know how to interpret this.”

  Meg considered it. “Do you really think we should tell him? How would it help for him to hear the slander against his uncle?”

  “You don’t need to tell him anything. Just give him what we found. It all belongs to him now, anyway.”

  Jasper was in the library when they found him, going through more books on the shelves.

  It was Sylvie who approached him. “We found this between two floorboards in the turret room.” She dropped the gold into his palm.

  His face blanched as he examined it, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “Confederate gold. It must have come from someone at Camp Douglas. I suppose it belongs in a museum now.” He rubbed it between his fingers and looked from Meg to Sylvie. “I don’t know
how my uncle came by it. Was it a bribe paid for extra wood, or medicine, or food? Was it given freely as a token of gratitude for some secret kindness? Or did he steal it?”

  Sylvie shook her head. “We’ll never know. But it’s all right, Jasper. We don’t need to. We remember Hiram for the good man he was.”

  Slowly, Jasper nodded. “I’ll see that this gets to the Chicago Historical Society, so long as I can be sure my uncle’s name won’t be attached to it. But as we have nothing but speculation as to its origin, the less said about this, the better.”

  Meg fully agreed.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1871

  Clouds moved in off the lake and hovered over Chicago, blotting the blue from the sky. In the burned district, wind stirred dust into the air and whipped the skirts around Meg’s legs. Nearly six weeks had passed since the fire, and there was still a brisk trade in fire relics, judging by the customers at a table where the sidewalk used to be. Smiling, she and Sylvie waved at the enterprising brothers Louis and Lorenzo Garibaldi while winding around the cellar of their old bookshop. Those who had once camped here were gone, presumably finding shelter in the barracks in the North Division for the winter. Behind the little house, close to the alley no longer fenced, an outhouse leaned slightly in the wind. Stifling a shudder, Meg fit the key into the lock of the small house and entered the dwelling she and Sylvie would learn to call home.

  Nate came in behind them and set down their belongings before closing the door. Already a fine layer of dust and sand had crept beneath it and coated the planed wood floor. Natural light struggled through bare windows, illuminating the hard corners of the space. Meg had known the building would have two rooms, the first measuring twelve by sixteen feet, and the second, eight by sixteen. But somehow she wasn’t prepared for how close it would feel, especially when considering adding paints and books.

  Sylvie’s boots clicked across the floor as she went to peer out the window. “We can track the progress on rebuilding the courthouse from here,” she said.

  “Yes, and you’ll hear it too.” Nate rapped two knuckles on the wall. “I wager you’ll hear most everything.”

  Meg smiled. “Then at least we’ll know we’re not alone.” As if on cue, Louis shouted about his fire relics with a volume barely muted by the walls that stood between them.

  Crossing her arms, Sylvie rubbed her hands over her sleeves and surveyed the two rooms from the doorway between them, her lips a thin hard line. There was one stove in the main room, along with a table and two crude benches tucked beneath it. A shelf held crockery, a skillet, one pan for the oven, a teakettle, and an earthenware pitcher. The bedroom in the back had a mattress layered with sheets, two army blankets, and a quilt. No doubt they would drag all of that into the main room to sleep near the fire at night. Still, they were dry and protected from the wind. There was no gas lighting and no indoor plumbing, of course. They’d need to carry water from the artesian well on Court House Square across the street. Everything smelled of new wood and sawdust. Though Meg wouldn’t admit it aloud, now she understood why some people called these shanty houses.

  “At least we know we’re safe. No one will break in to steal anything here.” She removed her hat and cloak, draping them over a chair. Though it was cold enough to leave both on, she meant to show that she would stay and settle in here. This would be her home. For now.

  With a light squeeze to her shoulder, Nate brushed past her and built a fire in the stove. Then he moved to the table and ran a flat palm across the surface. He winced. “Watch out for splinters,” he said. “I’ll come back tomorrow with sandpaper.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” Meg held her hands close to the stove. They tingled as they warmed. “I’m sure I can borrow some from any number of folks around here.”

  Nate pushed up his glasses. “I know I don’t have to. But you wouldn’t turn me away if I showed up with the right tool in the evening, would you? Possibly some pegs to hold your coats?”

  “No.” She smiled at him. “I wouldn’t turn you away.”

  A bench scraped the floor as Sylvie pulled it out from beneath the table. Still in her cloak, she sat. “This is temporary,” she said. “But do we have any idea how temporary? How soon can we start building our permanent residence?”

  Rubbing a hand over his jaw, Nate sat across from her. “You have a few things to consider, and I advise you to think carefully about each option. Assuming you have the funds to begin construction at any time, you could do so. But—”

  A sharp knock on the door cut him short.

  “Miss Townsend? Miss Townsend?” a familiar voice called from the other side.

  Meg left the warmth of the stove to open the door. A gust of wind blew sand over the threshold. “Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman!” she cried.

  A smile wreathed the baker’s face as he held out a plate of huge soft pretzels studded with coarse salt. Beside him, his wife, Anna, held a basket whose twisted handle resembled the braid of pale blond hair crowning her head. Meg didn’t know them very well, but when Anna reached for her with one arm, she gladly sank into an embrace that smelled of yeast and sugar.

  “Won’t you come in?” Meg stood aside, and they entered, followed by a quick round of introductions with Nate. Anna wrapped an arm around Sylvie too, kissing her cheek. The warm aroma of the pretzels quickly filled the small space.

  After Meg took their hats, Anna gave her a knowing look, one that said she’d seen Meg’s scars. “Are you all right?” she asked in a low voice thick with concern.

  Eyes misting, Meg swallowed. “I will be.”

  Karl quietly watched this exchange, then nodded as if to put an end to it. “For you and your sister.” He laid the plate on the table. “Mrs. Hoffman and I, we see your house being built, we knew you two were coming back. We want to say it will be nice to have you for neighbors again.”

  “Look, here, you will need these things.” Her cheeks flushed red with the cold, Anna peeled away a linen towel and withdrew items from her basket. “Candles, matches, wool stockings. Towels and soap. Curtains to cover your windows. And you must have coffee. It cannot be a home without coffee, ja?” She opened a small tin canister, releasing the scent of pre-ground coffee beans.

  Sylvie inhaled appreciatively. “It grows more like a home the longer you’re here.”

  Unfurling the yellow-and-white plaid curtains, Anna beamed. “These will add some cheer. See the loops at the top? Fit them over the rods already built above the windows. You girls need anything, you come find us. Just watch your step along the way!”

  “We were on the same block before.” Karl pinched the lapels of his coat. “Now we will be true neighbors. Ja? Your vater, Stephen. How is he?” Furrows grooved his brow.

  Surprised by the sudden shift in conversation, Meg stumbled to find a response. The truth was, she had no idea how her father was.

  “He’s in a doctor’s care,” Sylvie replied. “That’s all we really know.”

  Karl’s chin bobbed. “He did his best, the night of the fire. You should know that. He did his best. I was sorry I lost track of him after we finally found wheels to carry our things.”

  “Were you able to secure some of your property on the trains, sir?” Nate asked.

  Gravely, Karl nodded. “The equipment I could move, I did. The aid society has replaced my ovens to help me get back in the trade. And you? What did you save?”

  “Very little.” Sylvie unbuttoned her coat now that the room was heating, and hung two curtain panels on the window in the front room. Her expression softened as she arranged the sunshine-colored fabric. “But we intend to open to our customers soon, all the same. We’ll purchase some titles to carry in stock, but people can place orders with us, and we’ll get them what they want.”

  “We couldn’t save our books.” Wide-eyed, Anna turned a pointed look to Karl. “I would very much like to have something to read.”

  “And so you shall,” Karl boomed, his voice br
imming with good humor. “You need to settle in tonight, but soon, very soon, we would be honored to count ourselves among your first customers after the fire.”

  Meg smiled as she watched Sylvie light up.

  Nate clapped Karl on the back and shook his hand. “The Townsends are fortunate indeed to have neighbors like you.”

  “Come, husband,” Anna said, “let us leave before we overstay ourselves.”

  They walked the Hoffmans back outside, where Meg thanked Anna again for all the gifts. As Nate asked Karl what his rebuilding strategy was, movement caught Meg’s eye from down the street.

  A newly built two-story brick building teetered in a strong gust of wind. Meg covered her mouth as she watched it tip, then lean, and finally collapse with a crash. Clouds of dust billowed up from the impact.

  Meg hoped it wouldn’t trigger another episode similar to what Sylvie had experienced during the concert. “Are you all right?” she asked her sister.

  A hand pressed to her bodice, Sylvie nodded.

  “Ach,” Karl said. “You must get used to the sound of falling buildings, and remember to steer clear of new construction.” With that, the Hoffmans bade them goodnight.

  Back inside the little house, Meg struck a match on the stovetop and lit one of the tapers the Hoffmans had brought. “You didn’t seem at all surprised by that collapse, Nate. Tell me why, and I’ll let you share a pretzel with me.” She twisted the candle onto the candlestick’s spike and moved it to the center of the table, then slid the Hoffmans’ basket to the end.

  Grinning, he sat beside her and tore a pretzel in half, and steam spiraled upward. Sylvie passed out three small plates of plain white crockery and sat across from Meg, helping herself to a pretzel with a contented sigh.

  “Bricks need to be kept dry for a while after they've been formed,” Nate began. “Without summer’s hot and steady sun, they aren’t. Even when they aren’t being rained on, they aren’t drying out all the way. Not only that, but brick walls set over time in the warmer months, becoming more stable as the mortar hardens. But now, the mortar is in danger of freezing when the temperatures dip low overnight. That building that just collapsed? I wager it was held together by little more than gravity and balance. I’ve seen four- and five-story buildings suffer the same fate from ordinary winds.” He tore off a piece of pretzel and popped it into his mouth.