Releasing the brick, Sylvie stepped away from the wall. “We should go.”
“Yes,” Meg agreed. “We need to leave now.”
“I’m watching the city.” Stephen was completely oblivious to the danger they were in. “Look how peaceful it looks, with the snow covering everything with a blanket of innocence and light. But it’s what lies beneath that troubles me.”
Meg’s breath formed crystals on the inside of her muffler. She pushed it down beneath her chin. “I hear you. But let’s talk down on the street. This building isn’t stable.”
Snow capped his short hair and caped his shoulders. He cocked his ear, eyes wide and shining as he scanned the blocks around them. “Do you hear that?”
She didn’t. She didn’t hear anything but the pounding of her own heart and Sylvie’s breathing beside her.
A gust of wind billowed their nightgowns and sent three bricks from the top layer of the wall to the street below. The floor swayed.
Stephen jolted. “Someone’s there.”
“It was the wind knocking bricks off the wall.” Meg’s pulse rushed in her ears. “The mortar doesn’t hold—the building isn’t safe. It could topple any time, and all of us with it.”
“Father.” Sylvie’s voice was small against the wind. “I’m scared. I’m really scared right now, and I need you to protect me, to protect us. That means we all need to go now, before we fall.”
The wildness fled his eyes as he looked at her. Stepping across the gap that divided them, he took Sylvie’s hand, then Meg’s, scars and all. “I won’t take you girls down with me,” he said. “I never wanted that for you.”
It felt like a small miracle to be touched by him, followed by another that compelled him to climb down the quivering scaffolding to the solid street below.
When they were half a block away, a great crash shook the earth and reverberated through Meg’s being. She knew even before turning that the building they’d just left had fallen.
Sylvie gasped, her complexion pale as pearl. The horrified look she sent Meg said their escape had been far too narrow.
Stephen dropped to his knees in the snow, staring at the destruction.
Kneeling beside him, Meg placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right,” she choked out, though it nearly hadn’t been.
“By heaven, daughter. I think someone was trying to kill us.”
Meg buried her face in her hands.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1871
Exhaustion weighted Sylvie after last night’s ordeal with her father. She had the nightmares and racing heart in common with him, but the similarities ended at the intense paranoia and suspicion that dogged him as much now as they ever had. He couldn’t go on like this. None of them could. So after a tortured family conversation that morning, he’d agreed to consider seeing Dr. Gilbert next week, after Meg’s art show was over. That wasn’t much of a promise, but it was the best they could get from him.
In the meantime, he desperately needed to sleep. Perhaps with the shanty to himself right now, he could. Sylvie had other things to do.
She wondered if she ought to feel guilty for arranging a meeting with Jasper without her father’s knowledge but quickly decided against it. The photograph belonged to Jasper, and she’d promised to return it to him. If she hadn’t taken it out of his house to begin with, none of this would have happened.
But she had, so here she was, with Meg and Nate on the property of the burned-out Unity Church in the North Division, waiting to see if he would come. Meg had been here last week with Stephen and had painted Reverend Collyer in the church. But she needed to come back to finish the details of the building. As soon as Sylvie had learned of Meg’s plan, she’d offered to join her and Nate and then sent a note to Jasper telling him when she’d be here. Stephen had a cold this morning anyway—little wonder, given last night—and was happy to stay home.
Sylvie wrapped her muffler around her neck more snugly and tied it under her chin. Wind scoured through what was left of the church, making eerie high-pitched moans and kicking up dust and dirt. Only the outer walls were left standing. There was no roof anymore and nothing inside, the debris having been cleared away. Seen from a distance, Meg had likened it to a line drawing, a mere charcoal sketch on a grey-toned background. She’d been right.
At least the temperature held above freezing, melting off last night’s snow and allowing Meg’s paints to stay malleable. The humidity in the air, though, soaked the cold right through Sylvie’s layers.
Meg poked her head out from behind the canvas, brush in hand. “Would the two of you move into the building, please? I want to add people in the sanctuary, re-creating that first Sunday after the fire. I need you to give perspective.”
Sylvie’s toes tingled inside her boots as she trudged inside the walls.
Nate pushed down his own muffler to speak. “How are you holding up, Sylvie?” His breath fogged the lower half of his spectacles.
She sent him a sideways glance. Unsure how to answer, she changed the subject to her father instead. “I keep thinking that it’s a good thing Father’s gun was destroyed in the fire and taken away from him,” she said. “I hate to think of him patrolling like he did last night with a weapon. If he’s viewed as a threat to anyone’s safety, he’ll return to the asylum forever. Despite our disagreements, that’s not what I want.”
“No. None of us want that.” He lifted his head and gazed at the place where the church bell had been. Now there was just the outer wall of the bell tower rising above empty arches where doors and windows once were. “You do know he’s not trying to make you miserable, right? He genuinely believes his job is to keep you safe from harm.”
She nodded. “And he genuinely believes Jasper is dangerous. He’s genuinely wrong.”
A hansom cab rolled into view. Anticipation fluttering, she watched it draw near and slow to a halt. Jasper climbed down and had a word with the driver.
“What a coincidence,” Nate murmured, raising an eyebrow at her.
In the edge of her vision, Sylvie saw Meg watching too. Meg hadn’t been thrilled with this arrangement, but at least she agreed he deserved to have his photograph back. Meeting at the shanty was out of the question, and so was the idea of Sylvie meeting him at his house alone again.
“It will only take a minute,” Sylvie told Nate. “Don’t tell me you’re uncomfortable with this.”
“Not as long as I keep my eyes on the two of you.”
She laughed. “There’s nowhere to hide here, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
A moment later, she was standing with Jasper in the church, several yards away from Nate. “I’m sorry it took so long to return this to you.” She withdrew a small book of sonnets from her pocket that she’d used to keep the carte de visite flat. Opening to the middle, she withdrew the image and handed it back to its owner.
“Yes, curious. Why was that?” His nose and cheeks were reddened with cold. There was a guardedness about him. He probably thought she’d hate him if she knew who he really was.
Flustered, she tucked the book back in her pocket and resolved to be as honest as she could without hurting him. “I’ll tell you. But please don’t interrupt me, and don’t jump to conclusions.” As briefly as she could, she explained what Meg and Nate had learned at the photographer’s studio. “I don’t think any less of you, Jasper, for fighting for the South. It’s important to me that you know that.”
His silence grew uncomfortable.
“Are we wrong?” she asked. “About any of what I said?”
He blinked and looked away. “No. I did fight for the Confederacy. I was imprisoned in Uncle Hiram’s camp, and he paid for the photograph, as I told you before. And then I became a Galvanized Yankee. You could have come to me with your questions, Sylvie. No need to ferret out the answers on your own.”
“Would you have told us? Would you have shared all of that with me?”
The side of his mouth twitched up and back again. “Not all
at once, if I could have helped it. But can you blame me? Chicago and I have a checkered history. You come from a very patriotic family, and your father . . . I can’t imagine he took the news of my past very well.”
Sylvie shifted and glanced at Nate, who was still watching her. “It was a shock to him. But he’ll come around, I think, with time.” At least, she hoped he would.
“Not any time soon, I wager. I’ll stay away, out of respect for his wishes. And I’ll ask you and your family to show me enough respect not to research me behind my back anymore. I’ll save you the trouble and tell you outright. In case you were wondering, my family never had a single slave. Any other questions, all you need to do is ask.” He tipped his hat to her.
She couldn’t let him leave, not when she was finally getting to see behind his mask. “I’m asking you now,” she said almost breathlessly. “Please talk to me. I want to know more of who you really are. Jasper—I saw your feet.”
That stopped him. Something flashed across his face. “Frostbite. From being made to stand barefoot in snow and ice at Camp Douglas.”
“How dreadful. I had no idea.”
“Then you never climbed the observatory tower and watched the show. I’m glad.”
“No, my mother never allowed such a thing.” She was quiet a moment, waiting to see if she’d pushed too far. But since he wasn’t walking away yet, she tried her luck again. “And that song about the wayfaring stranger—why did you react so strongly to it?”
He sighed, as if it took a great deal of patience to answer her. “That’s a popular song down south. It brought me, and many a soldier, great comfort during the war and especially during our imprisonment. I was worried you’d guess I fought with the Confederacy by that song alone, and that you’d want nothing more to do with me.”
With that small bit of honesty, the door to the true Jasper Davenport creaked open. She wanted to swing it wide but caught herself before she reached for him. She straightened her spine with the dignity that remained to her. “You needn’t have worried on that score, Jasper.”
The smile on his face was rueful. “Good day, Miss Townsend. I do wish you all the best.”
He went, and the sun ducked behind a cloud.
Chapter Thirty-Five
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1871
Meg closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. It didn’t help.
Nothing was wrong between the two of them, Nate had said. He wasn’t angry or offended by anything she’d said or done. She should have left it there and been satisfied. But she’d been so sensitive to the distance she feared was growing between them that she begged him to reveal whatever he was hiding. After learning Jasper’s surprising past, she was through with secrets and half-truths.
Reluctantly, he’d told her. He doubted Otto Schneider had killed Hiram. He believed, but couldn’t prove, that Otto had been paid to take the blame. “I don’t want you to worry,” he’d added after telling her all his reasons. But what she heard was, The killer is still at large, no one knows who he is, and the police aren’t investigating.
That was two days ago, and she’d carried that conversation with her ever since, along with a dread that wrapped and squeezed.
She hadn’t been able to eat all day. Now that she was standing in Mr. Jansen’s gallery moments before the Spirit of Chicago Art Show opened, she was glad of it. A hand pressed to her bodice, she smiled at Bertha Palmer and hoped her nerves were not as evident as they felt.
“You’re ready for this,” Mrs. Palmer told her with a smile. Gaslight sparkled on the diamonds in her hair and gleamed on the birch floor. Gilt frames hung at eye level on dark green papered walls. At the opposite end of the long room, a string quartet tuned their instruments and began playing, their music the perfect polish to make the evening shine.
If only Meg could concentrate on this, and not on a murderer still running free. With a silent prayer for help, she resolved to set aside her dismay and enjoy the evening. A month ago, she’d never have thought this possible.
“Maybe Father will come later,” Sylvie said.
Maybe. But crowds rattled him, and the last thing Meg wanted was for him to be out of sorts tonight. At least at home he was comfortable. Still, the fact that he was missing this event stung, no matter how good the reason for it.
“Whether Stephen comes or not, you must believe he is proud of you. We all are.” Anna Hoffman’s voice refocused Meg’s attention on what was before her, rather than what wasn’t. Having come early to donate pies and pastries to the fundraiser, she beamed as she gestured toward Meg’s work sharing wall space with several pieces Bertha had brought home from France.
Meg’s gaze blurred as she took in the scenes she’d painted around the city, from Louis Garibaldi selling a relic to Bertha Palmer, to Reverend Collyer shepherding his congregation in his burned-out Unity Church. One painting showed Sylvie working at the aid distribution center, and another showed Anna Hoffman bringing pretzels and Berliners to German families in the ravaged North Division. And there was the banker, posture erect, wearing his best suit and reciting “a heart for any fate” as his old institution came tumbling down. A handful of smaller paintings were scattered between those five. Each one told its own story, but viewed together like this, they formed a tapestry of hope.
Sylvie grasped her hand. “Just think. You never wanted to paint from life before, and now look at the life you’ve captured.”
Overcome with gratitude, Meg squeezed her sister’s hand in return. “Ten weeks ago, every woman here lost nearly everything,” she said quietly. “But look how far we’ve come. Look how far Chicago has come.”
“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Palmer nodded, taking a peek at the timepiece chained to her bodice. “Here we are, and more are soon to arrive. Are you prepared to meet them?”
While Meg and Mrs. Palmer discussed the silent bidding process, Sylvie and Anna receded to the edges of the room. From the adjacent reception area, smells of apple cider perfumed the air along with the evergreen boughs placed on the linen-covered table. Several footmen loaded silver trays with cups of cider to pass among the guests.
Not five minutes later, the first of them arrived in furs and jewels. Completely in her element, Mrs. Palmer ushered them toward Meg and introduced her in such glowing terms that Meg wasn’t sure she could live up to them.
“See for yourself,” Mrs. Palmer told her friends, sweeping an elegant arm toward the paintings. To Meg, she whispered, “Your turn.”
Swallowing her nerves, Meg followed their gazes, noting where they lingered, and began telling them about the subject portrayed.
“But I heard you burned your hands,” a gentleman said. “It must have been a rumor.”
“It isn’t,” Meg said, and his gaze dropped to her scars. Weeks ago, she would have shrunk away from his curiosity. But she’d earned this night and the attention. All she felt was pride.
“Fascinating!” He turned to the paintings with new interest.
After that, Meg could hardly keep track of how many people she met. Helene Dressler and Kirstin Lindberg were among them, chatting with Sylvie for a long while after they admired her work. Jasper was conspicuously absent. She knew it was better that way.
When Nate arrived with Frank and Edith, Meg was talking with a couple from the Prairie Avenue district. She smiled and waved discreetly, then turned back to the woman who wanted to know more about the fate of Reverend Collyer’s church. By the time the couple had moved on, Nate apparently had too.
Threading her way between guests, Meg was stopped a few more times before she finally reached the Novaks and warmly thanked them for coming.
“We wouldn’t miss it.” Edith kissed her on the cheek.
“If she weren’t already so fond of you, Meg, I’d say she’s just as happy for a night away from the kids,” Frank teased. Then his expression grew serious. “Nate told us what happened with your father this week. His urgency to get a gun, his patrolling in that building right before it collapsed? He really
should see Dr. Gilbert.”
“I know. He said he’d think about it. I’d love to schedule an appointment for this week.”
“That would be wise.”
“Now, if we can only get my father to agree.” Meg looked around. “Didn’t I see Nate with you?”
Edith accepted a cup of cider from a passing footman and sipped it. “He asked after your father. Then he disappeared.”
“I think I know why.” Frank nodded toward the door.
Nate and Stephen entered together. Nate found Meg and steered her father straight toward her. Frank clapped his brother-in-law on the back and shook her father’s hand. Edith waved a footman over and passed a cup of cider to Stephen along with her greeting.
Tears gathered in Meg’s throat. “I didn’t expect to see you!”
Stephen glanced at Nate, then at her. “This is a big night for you. I said I would be here for you from now on, didn’t I? Well, here I am.”
“I can see that.” She could also see by the hunted look in his eyes that it was costing him. He was exhausted as it was. “I appreciate it more than you know. Maybe you’d like to take a seat while you drink your cider. Be sure to get a slice of Anna’s strudel too.”
One of Frank’s colleagues approached them, and Frank and Edith broke away to converse with him and his wife.
Stephen lowered his voice. “I’m not good at talking to strangers, daughter. Not unless they want to talk about books.”
“You won’t need to,” she replied. “Just sit and look at the art. That’s exactly the right thing to do.”
Nodding, he went to one of the cushioned benches and lowered himself onto it.
“You look lovely,” Nate said, “and so does your work. Enjoy yourself tonight.”
She wanted to ask if he’d learned anything new about Otto since they’d spoken on Friday but then decided that could wait. “I will,” she said. “I am.”
“Good. I don’t want to keep you from your guests, so I’ll go sit with your father. If anyone tries to talk to him, they’ll have to talk to me instead.” He was protecting Stephen. He had his own family here with whom he could spend time, but instead he was attaching himself to her father.
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