Sylvie lifted her gaze to the handmade angel perched atop the tree. Fear not, it seemed to say. Immanuel, God is with us. Yes, God was with them, with Sylvie, even now. If George Skinner called upon Him, He would be with him too. This was logical, this made sense. She only had to train her heart to listen to her mind. If George truly wanted to change, to become a better man, God would help with that.
Not her.
Meg watched Sylvie and their father with a wary eye. Neither seemed to be in a celebratory mood, and she couldn’t blame them. She was so glad they’d both chosen to come, though, for she couldn’t stand the idea of them staying at the shanty alone tonight. Last Christmas Eve, they’d been with Hiram in his home. Those memories fluttered through Meg’s mind, chased away by more recent events. The art show had been a week ago. The art show and the dreadful confrontation with George Skinner.
But this was Christmas. She resolved to set aside last week and enjoy the bounty that was here and now. Frank and Edith’s home brimmed over with what mattered most: faith, family, and friends. Reverend Collyer’s sermon from just after the fire scrolled through Meg’s mind once more. “We will thank God as soon as we can.” Today she could, and she did. These last few months were not what she would have chosen, but she was far richer now than she was before she’d lost nearly everything to the flames.
The fire crackled merrily behind its grate, warming the parlor enough for Meg to feel drowsy. She leaned against Nate, breathing in his sandalwood scent along with that of the cider and spruce. While Edith tried to draw Sylvie into conversation, Nate spoke to his brother-in-law.
Frank smoothed his thumb and index finger over his mustache. “How does it feel not to be a reporter anymore?”
Meg turned to Nate, alarmed. “What’s this?”
Color crept above Nate’s starched white collar. “I was going to tell you.”
“Well, I’m all ears.” But she imagined her smile was a thin veneer to her confusion. Had he lost his job? Was he trying not to ruin Christmas with bad news? But that didn’t make sense either, after his front-page story on Monday.
“Frank!” Edith swatted her husband’s arm. “You shouldn’t have said anything! He was going to tell her when the time was right!”
A nervous laugh tripped over Meg’s lips. “No time like the present.”
Nate stood and offered her his hand. “Let’s go for a walk.” He turned to Sylvie and Stephen. “We won’t be long, and then if you’re ready, I can take you all home.”
Frank clapped Nate on the back as Meg rose. “Sorry, pal. I thought you’d told her.” Behind him, Edith just shook her head.
None of this set Meg’s mind at ease. She’d had enough of secrets to last a lifetime. She hadn’t expected this from Nate, especially not now.
Outside, snow fell in a fine white powder around them, and their breath glittered in puffs of vanishing crystals. Meg folded her arms.
“I was going to tell you,” Nate began.
“You already said that.” She looked up at him. “Did you lose your job? Did you lose it because of my family and Hiram and George?”
“In a manner of speaking, but don’t worry. I can explain.” For a man with years of experience writing the news, he was having a terrible time finding words fast enough.
“‘Don’t worry’?” Her voice caught. Worry was the only thing she felt right now.
“When Edith, Harriet, and Andrew left to start their own lives, I felt relieved. I yearned for independence.” He straightened his hat on his head, and his gloves came away dusted with snow. “I didn’t want that kind of burden again.”
“You didn’t?” Meg’s steps slowed to a halt. “Or you don’t?”
Snow melted into little droplets on his spectacles. He took them off and tucked them into his pocket. Then he held Meg’s shoulders, as though to keep the distance between them from growing any larger. She didn’t pull away.
“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t plan to be responsible for anyone again for a very long time, if ever. I figured I’d paid my dues, that I’d already raised my family and had no need for another. But you’ve changed my mind, Meg. Loving you is no burden at all.” He swallowed, his eyes bright and glossy from the cold. “Surely you already knew that I love you.”
Something untwisted inside Meg. Hearing those words from Nate filled a part of her that had been untended and barren. Her mother had said she loved Meg. Before the war, so had her father. But here was something different. Love by choice, freely given, not bound by duty or obligation. Love despite her imperfections.
A smile slowly curved her lips. “I love you too, Nate. More than I can say.”
He slid his hands down her arms, and she gave him her bare hands. All she had to do was tilt her chin, and she could kiss the melted snowflakes from his lips. But she checked the impulse. “What about your job?”
“I was coming to that. My job as a reporter would not have supported you well. The hours were lousy, and so was the pay. But I’ve been promoted. Hollingbrook put in a recommendation. I’m the City Editor now.”
“Why, that’s wonderful! Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because I wanted to wait until I had this.”
Releasing her, Nate pulled off his gloves, dropped them at his feet, and bent one knee in the snow. Gaslight from the lamppost lit the flakes swirling around him. When he drew a small box from his pocket and opened it to reveal an amethyst and gold ring inside, Meg’s heart grew wings.
“I love you, Meg Townsend. And I want to go on loving you, if you’ll have me, as long as we both shall live. If there is any burden, we’ll share it together. I want to raise a family again, my own family—our family. Will you marry me?”
Warm tears mingled with the snow dusting her cheeks. As soon as Nate saw them, he was on his feet again, looking worried. She flung her arms around him and kissed away any doubt he might have had.
“Yes,” she whispered, shielded in his embrace while the storm danced and spun around them. “Haven’t you noticed? I already belong to you.”
Epilogue
CHICAGO
JUNE 1872
Outside the new Corner Books & More, Chicago pulsed with the noise and activity of reconstruction. Inside the bookshop, however, Sylvie Townsend steadily rebuilt herself. Today she moved comfortably between customers, shelves, and cash register, while Stephen worked in the back on a new binding for an old book. She smiled as she thought of his work. She had the same binding as ever. It was the spirit inside that had been sewn back together, one painful stitch at a time. By God’s grace, she was more resilient, she’d found, than she’d realized.
“I’ve made up my mind. I want this one.”
Sylvie looked up to find Lucy Marsdale, one of her younger patrons, hugging a book.
A quick scan of the store showed several other customers browsing the shop, but for now, none waited at the counter to check out. “And which one is this?” Sylvie was happy to share Lucy’s enthusiasm.
The young woman turned the book to display the cover. “I hear it’s terribly romantic.” She was sixteen years old. Romance was her chief interest.
Sylvie stifled a sigh when she saw it was Jane Eyre. “It was my favorite at your age too.”
A ridge formed between Lucy’s clear blue eyes. “You don’t like it anymore? Why not?”
Taking a moment to choose her words, Sylvie smoothed the front of her periwinkle bodice and brushed invisible cat hair from the horizontal draping on her skirt. “I still believe it’s one of the greatest works of literature ever written. It has not just romance, but moral depth as well. In fact, I’d love to discuss it once you finish. But may I recommend another volume as well?”
Beckoning Lucy to follow, Sylvie rounded one bookshelf and crossed to the end of another, footsteps dimmed by the carpet runners in the aisles.
“Don’t mind Oliver Twist.” She chuckled, stepping over the cat’s outstretched body as he lay in a swath of late afternoon sun. “H
ere we are. Villette, also by Charlotte Brontë.” She handed a copy to Lucy. “Not as popular as Jane Eyre, but it should be. Plus, the heroine shares your name.”
She didn’t tell her young customer that Sylvie hadn’t learned to love it—particularly the ending—until a few months ago. But she understood now. She understood that marriage to one’s first love was not the only way to end a story. That fulfilling work was another path to happiness.
Lucy took the novel and opened to the first chapter, beaming when she found her name in the character of Lucy Snowe. “I’ll take it. I’ll take both of them. I’m sure Grandmother won’t mind.” She waved to Mrs. Marsdale, and the dignified older woman glided in a rustle of brown bustled silk to meet them at the counter.
While Sylvie rang up the purchase, Mrs. Marsdale gestured to the front corner window. “Your display is lovely, dear, but I miss seeing your sister at her easel with her paints. I so enjoyed watching her work.”
Sylvie missed Meg too, in more ways than one. But that corner spot had grown too confining for the artist she’d become. A few of her character portraits hung on the walls, but most of the new bookshelves went all the way to the ceiling. “She’s broadened her horizons. She paints from life now, Mrs. Marsdale. You can still watch her work. You’ll just have to find her first, somewhere in the city.”
Mrs. Marsdale laughed as she paid for the purchase. “I think I’ll find her at her next art show instead. Thank you!”
The bell jingled above the door as she and Lucy left, two books the richer.
While other patrons continued browsing, Sylvie sat on the stool behind the counter and updated her inventory list. Business was good. It was steady. A plan had been adopted for a new public library to be established, but it wouldn’t open until January, so she wouldn’t fret about how that might affect her shop yet. There were debts to pay for the cost of construction, but Sylvie was convinced she had the most loyal customers in the city. Rent from the new third-floor tenants, who’d moved in two months ago, helped too. Sylvie wasn’t worried—at least, not very much.
A gust of warm, humid air flounced through the shop as the door opened again. One day June would again bring the fragrance of roses and lilacs. But this year, the wind carried only the scents of hot bricks and fresh mortar. Meg swept in on such an industrious-smelling breeze, blond curls tumbling over the shoulders of her white cotton tabby dress. She let her folded easel slide from beneath one arm, and set down the case containing canvas, brushes, and paints.
“There you are, Mrs. Pierce. Don’t forget, your rent is due at the end of this week,” Sylvie teased.
Meg laughed. “You’re a harsh mistress, sister. Never a break, is there?” Tucking her art supplies behind a shelf, she came to the counter, her freckled cheeks flushed.
Sylvie arched an eyebrow, amused. “As if you need one.” From what she knew, Nate’s job at the Tribune was secure, and Meg was so busy on commissioned paintings that she was rarely in the bookshop anymore. “How was work today?”
Removing her straw hat, Meg used it to fan herself. “Excellent. My next show is scheduled at the gallery for the first week of October, right before the first anniversary of the fire. That’s plenty of time for me to work on a collection of paintings based on the Great Rebuilding.”
“I’m sure time will go by quickly.”
“I’m sure it will.” Sobering, Meg lowered her hat to the counter and fingered the green ribbon above its brim. “But there’s something else. You know Hiram’s house and all the property inside went to auction last week.”
A stillness settled over Sylvie. She surveyed the shop to be sure she wasn’t neglecting any customers. One gentleman sat in an armchair, reading, and another was conversing with Stephen. “The estate went to a new bank president, I believe. I suppose he and his family have moved in by now?”
“In the process. I received a letter from him today. He found the painting I did of George Skinner and has no use for it. He learned I was the artist and asked if I wanted it back, or if I knew anyone else who would want it.”
The portrait burst upon Sylvie’s mind. “No.” The word slipped out like a sigh. “No. I don’t think you do.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but you did ask about it once.” Meg seemed to study her.
“That was a long time ago.” Weeks. Months. Ages.
“It was. I’m sorry, Sylvie. In case I never said it before, I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through. Not everyone would have come back from that the way you have.” Meg stretched her fingers away from her palms. “Thank you for what you’ve done with the store, and with Father.”
Sylvie started to shake her head, but Meg touched her wrist to stop her.
“I mean it. I’m so grateful for how you’ve managed everything. If you’re more tired than you’re letting on, or if you ever need to vent any frustrations, I hope you’ll come to me. In fact, come for any reason. My being married doesn’t change that we’re sisters.”
“Thank goodness for that.” Sylvie squeezed her hand, warmed by what Meg had said more than she had time to express. “You’re welcome, and yes, I will come to you.” She flicked a glance at a waiting customer. “But for now, could you ask if the new owner plans to keep the portrait of Hiram with the house? If not, I know Father would want it.”
Meg agreed and went upstairs.
At the end of the afternoon, Sylvie hung the Closed sign and locked the door to the outside world. After reckoning the accounts and exchanging a word with her father, she climbed the stairs to their apartment.
Her room was her own again. The yellow-and-white curtains Anna had sewn for their shanty now graced her windows, and a quilt made of the same cheery shades covered the whitewashed iron bed. On her nightstand, her father’s framed carte de visite sat beside her mother’s coverless copy of Little Women. Sylvie smiled as words from the character Marmee seemed to lift from between the pages: “Work is a blessed solace.” Yes, it was. She was blessed that she loved what she did.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Sylvie removed her shoes and let them drop to the thick rag rug. Her own face—or a younger, simpler version of it—stared back at her from the canvas leaning against the opposite wall.
It was special as the first portrait Meg painted after the fire that wasn’t of herself. This was a marker of Meg’s journey, an early milestone to prove how far she’d come. But it was more than that. For Sylvie, it was a portrait of her own naïveté, for that was what she looked like when she’d thought she loved George.
She looked happy. She looked deceived.
Sylvie never wanted to be that way again.
Jasper Davenport, Nate had learned from the army, had died at the time and place his grandmother Sarah had said. George Skinner had been convicted of murder and was in prison, where he would spend the best years of a man’s life. In her mind, Sylvie had turned him over to God’s care. She would trust His will for her life too.
Rising, she drew a sheet over the painting to protect it from dust blowing through the window, and headed to the kitchen to prepare dinner for two.
After dinner with Sylvie, Stephen stood on the roof of his building alone. Twilight colored the clouds unfurling like a banner low in the sky. But it was the city below that concerned him.
Thousands upon thousands of men had rushed in from the east for this Great Rebuilding. Heaven knew who they all were, if all were legitimate. It made Stephen uneasy, this constant churning of bricks and dust and humanity. None of Dr. Gilbert’s powders had succeeded in curing his wariness. He’d been right to be suspicious of George Skinner, hadn’t he?
Stephen rubbed the back of his neck. His nocturnal vigils wouldn’t make much difference now, he figured. There were night watchmen and police, all younger men than he, and stronger too. Besides, sleep was a precious gift he wasn’t willing to forfeit. So he kept his lookouts to evening hours, before dark. If he was honest, as much as he disliked the hordes of strangers in his city, there was
something satisfying in seeing the progress day after day. It was a wonder how quickly buildings could rise from ashes. The Tribune reported a million bricks were laid each day.
Slowly, he walked toward the other end of the building, well away from all the edges. Prairie winds whipped around him, flapping his shirt. A warning pulsed in his thigh. Resigned to the lingering weakness from his bullet wound, he sat in the chair Nate had carried up for him weeks ago. Clay pots of red flowers squatted near it, thanks to Meg. At first he’d questioned her effort to fancy up a rooftop, but he didn’t mind the bees, butterflies, and sometimes birds who caught sight and came to visit.
The neighborhood was quieting after another long day of labor, but echoes and voices still carried. Crickets joined them. Stephen pulled a dinner roll from his pocket and tore it to pieces, scattering the crumbs. A sparrow fluttered nearby and landed on the roof, tilting its head at Stephen before pecking up the crumbs he’d tossed. Stephen watched it and then another bird who joined it for the feast. They flew away too soon. They’d be back.
A deep breath filled his chest, triggering a round of coughing. At least his heart didn’t race nearly as much as it did, and he thanked God and Dr. Gilbert for that. But sometimes his hand still shook. Sometimes fear or anger grew unreasonable. He had to remind himself to display affection for his daughters and often forgot altogether. Sometimes he still saw his friends who’d died in camp, battle, or Andersonville, either in daydreams or night dreams.
Now he saw Hiram too, another casualty of war. This one troubled him most of all, because Stephen could have prevented it, if only he’d figured out earlier what George Skinner was up to. But he’d trodden that road in his mind so often by now that the ruts were deep as trenches. And it didn’t bring Hiram back.
A tear ran hot down his face. He let it fall, along with the ones that came after. Stephen had made his peace with seeing his friends in his mind or in dreams, preferred it, even, if the alternative was forgetting them. His comrades, and memories of them, weren’t something to be cured of. They were to be respected and honored.
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