The White City

by Grace Hitchcock

  PRAISE FOR THE WHITE CITY

  “A delightful debut! Bursting with intrigue, romance, and historical tidbits that bring Chicago during the Gilded Age to vivid life, The White City is a story that’s certainly destined for the keeper shelf.”

  –Jen Turano, USA Today bestselling author

  “From the first sentence until the last, Hitchcock has crafted a tale that weaves in and out and all around, keeping me guessing until the final page was turned. The White City is a story I won’t soon forget!”

  –Kathleen Y’Barbo, author of The Alamo Bride, The Pirate Bride, and My Heart Belongs in Galveston, Texas

  ©2019 by Grace Hitchcock

  Print ISBN 978-1-68322-868-4

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-870-7

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-869-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Image: Holly Leedham/Trevillion Images

  Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Dedication

  To the one who holds my heart.

  The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell.

  PSALM 27:1–2 KJV

  Chapter One

  “If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.”

  ~Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

  Chicago, July 1893

  Winnifred Wylde concentrated on his forehead, nodding, trying to respond appropriately, but it was so difficult with his nose hair escaping and retreating into his left nostril with every breath. Clutching the gold-rimmed china teacup, she averted her gaze to the front entrance of the Ceylon Teahouse, envying the rest of the fairgoers passing by, free from listening to Mr. Saunders drone on and on.

  I cannot believe Aunt Lillian made me set aside my novel for this. She promised me a day at the world’s fair, not a never-ending monologue. Winnifred thought of the poor heroine that she had left in the clutches of danger and longed to return to her chapter. Rowena might not even get to marry her love, Lord Francis! She may end up with the villain! She swallowed, trying not to resent Mr. Saunders for keeping her from her reading. Why does Aunt Lillian insist on bringing me suitors? I keep telling her I don’t want a man “brought.” I want him to ride through the meadows and sweep me off my feet. I want adventure. I want—Mr. Saunders snorted at his own joke, sending the dreaded nose hair twirling in the air as he chomped down on his scone, strawberry jam smearing on his pale chin.

  Not him, that’s for sure. She pasted on a smile. You must endure as Rowena did when she was captured by her father’s evil business partner, Aloysius. Endure.

  A flake of scone caught in his thick mustache.

  But I am no heroine. I cannot endure this any longer. “I can’t.”

  “Pardon me, Miss Wylde?” His thick brows rose at her interruption.

  Her eyes grew wide as she barely refrained from slapping her hand over her mouth. Did I say that out loud? “I am so sorry. I meant to say—” A flash of green drew her gaze to behind her suitor’s shoulder and into the shadows of an exhibit where a lean man with a thick mustache seized the wrist of a woman in an emerald day dress as he reached for her dangling reticule. The woman’s mouth twisted in pain, and she attempted to wrench herself from his grasp, but she stilled when the man pulled what appeared to be a small revolver from his pocket and pressed it to her corseted waist.

  Thinking of the numerous disappearances of young women lately and the countless stories she had read of ruffians ransoming young women, Winnifred dropped her napkin and in her haste to rise, jarred the table, setting the teapot to rattling. She picked up her white skirt and rushed out, leaving Mr. Saunders calling out for her as she ducked under and around the booths in the Woman’s Building, knocking loose her pink chapeau as she raced to the main entrance in pursuit of the couple. But the sea of fairgoers outside had already swallowed them. Her gaze flew from white building to blinding white building, her stomach churning at the thought that she was this woman’s only hope if this man was indeed the devil behind the White City disappearances.

  “Miss Wylde! There you are.” Mr. Saunders’s cheeks puffed with the effort it took him to follow her. “Whatever drew you away?”

  Righting her hat, Winnifred turned to him with her hands on her hips. “Would you be so kind as to take me to the police station? I need to report a kidnapping.”

  His eyes widened as he clutched his brocade-embroidered waistcoat. “Wh–whatever do you mean?”

  “I witnessed a man forcing some poor woman to comply with his will under threat of death.” Winnifred twisted around, searching for an exit sign. In the event of a kidnapping, every second counted. “We need to leave now.”

  He swept off his hat and fanned his face. “I can hardly believe it. We were only feet from a crime. I mean, you read about these things in the paper, but you never imagine that they could happen to y—”

  Spying a sign for the nearest grip car station, Winnifred dug into her reticule for fare. “Mr. Saunders, I’m afraid we have no time to waste. We must be off at once.”

  “But our luncheon?” he protested.

  “Will have to end prematurely.” Thank the Lord. Winnifred set off at a brisk walk, attempting to keep an obtainable pace for Mr. Saunders, but he soon flagged behind, collapsing into a chair at one of the many outdoor restaurants as he muttered for her to wait. But time was of the essence. She wove through the crowds, desperately trying to reach the line before the next grip car departed. Paying for a ticket, she slipped inside the car only moments before the copper bell rang and the car lurched forward. Gripping the pole, she sat perched on the wooden seat, her knee bouncing as she counted the stops until she reached her father’s station.

  The woman next to Winnifred looked her up and down with a pinched expression before turning to her companion, whispering away.

  Let them gossip. She lifted her head, knowing that her hair must look a fright after her chase, but she didn’t have time to stop at home for a comb and an escort. This was an emergency.

  The car jerked to a halt a block from the police station, and without even a departing glance at the women, W
innifred strode down the sidewalk, her skirt slapping against her calves in a raucous manner that would have appalled her Aunt Lillian. Taking the steps two at a time, she let herself into the police station and, with a wave to the front desk officer, she hurried through to the stairs, climbing them to the second floor. She marched toward her father’s office, but before she could reach for the door, one of the officers called out to her.

  “Miss Wylde, good to see you. Inspector Wylde stepped out for a cup of coffee, but he should be back any minute.” Officer Baxter grinned, crossing the room to greet her. “Found any more criminals for us to lock up today?”

  She laughed without mirth. “Very funny. As a matter of fact, I did.” She crossed her arms, waiting for him to exclaim over her declaration, but much to her chagrin, he merely laughed at her, shaking his head as if her announcement was the most amusing thing he’d heard in a while.

  “Never a dull day when you brighten our doors, Miss Wylde.” The gangly officer sat on the corner of a nearby desk, crossing his arms as if to further mock her. “Can you tell me about this criminal? Was he tall, dark, and handsome, with a knife? I believe it was a knife last time, wasn’t it? So maybe today he should be wielding, perhaps, a revolver?” He stroked his auburn mustache with two fingers.

  Winnifred pressed her lips into a firm line as she turned her back to him. Father will listen to me. Letting herself into his office, she left the door open and sank into his large, worn leather chair behind his desk and ran her finger over the silver frame that rested on top. She lifted the picture and gazed into the face of the woman of whom she was told she was an exact replica. She traced the faint dimple in her mother’s wide smile before traveling over the curled locks that, had the picture captured her coloring, would have been the same golden hue as her own. Winnifred tucked an escaped wisp of hair behind her ear and sighed. Never a day went by that she didn’t long for another moment with her mother. She was only ten years of age when Mother fell ill, but Father spoke of her as if she were still living, though it had been nearly a decade since her passing. It was through his vivid memories Winnifred grew to know her mother more, but it was in Mother’s library where she felt as though they would have been fast friends.

  “And to what do I owe this pleasure, Daughter?” Her strapping father filled the doorframe, his presence commanding every officer in the precinct. “I thought you would still be on your outing to the exposition? Is Saunders waiting for you in the carriage?”

  “Saunders was nothing like Aunt Lillian’s description.” She hopped up from the chair, giving her father a peck on the cheek. If she hadn’t known that he was almost fifty, she would have guessed his age was nearer to the late thirties. She would have to try to match her father again, though he always dismissed her selections in favor of her mother’s memory. If her selections were anything like Aunt Lillian’s choices, she now understood his determination to remain single. “I left him behind because I have some time-sensitive news.”

  He removed his navy coat, hanging it on the back of his chair. He shook his head as if he knew what was coming. “Winnie …”

  “Now, I know what you’re going to say, but hear me out.” She lifted her hand to stay his protests. Her past mistakes had done little to earn the respect from her father that she so desperately craved, but this was more important than her pride. A woman’s life was at stake. “I’m sure I’m right this time. This kidnapper had a firearm! I’ve found the devil who has been stealing women at the fair and ransoming them!”

  “You were certain last time, and you remember what happened with that poor fruit vendor.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sure you think you have stronger evidence, but your overactive imagination has sent my men on more rabbit trails than I’d care to admit. And now that I’ve been promoted to inspector, I can’t be responsible for such a waste of resources. I’m sorry, but I cannot jeopardize my career and reputation for another of your suspected crimes.” He reached out and stroked her cheek in a rare show of affection. “Your mother had a fondness for those novels as well. Now, tell me, which one are you reading now?”

  Her cheeks flamed at the thought of the stack of penny novels on the cane-back chair beside her bed. Winnifred had long since blazed through her mother’s more refined novels of Austen, Dickens, and Alcott before devouring her collection of romantic poetry by Tennyson, Browning, and Dickinson. Atop the current pile on the chair was His Secret Wife, the latest work of Winnifred’s favorite author, Percival Valentine. “That is of little consequence.”

  He laughed and shifted through the stack of files on his oversized desk. “I’m sorry, Winnie, but I have to get back to work. I have several cases I need to tend to personally, and I’m afraid I don’t have any time to spare. I’ll see you at dinner?”

  Rather than saying something puerile that would confirm his analysis that she was just an overgrown schoolgirl spinning wild tales for the sake of garnering her father’s attention, she nodded, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and slipped out of his office and shut the door before he could ask one of the policemen to escort her home. Feeling her hat was about to tumble, she paused and pinned her chapeau into place, her focus drifting to the corner of the room to a towering detective with thick, wavy brown hair whom she had never seen before. He leaned over his desk, supporting his weight on his knuckles, his shirt pulling against his broad chest and accentuating his muscular arms. Mesmerized, she watched as he raked his hands through his hair.

  “Noticing our latest addition from New York, are you?” Officer Baxter chuckled from behind her. “I would have introduced you sooner, but he was digging around in the archive room when you arrived. That’s Detective Jude Thorpe.”

  At his name, Detective Thorpe glanced up from his disorganized desk, his gaze meeting hers, sending her cheeks into flames. Winnifred gripped her gloves in her fist, muttered her goodbye to the officer, and hurried for the stairs, desperate to escape the new detective’s amber eyes. His desk was so close to her father’s office, she was sure that he’d overheard her father’s reaction to her request. Her feet dragged the pavement as her cheeks tinted with the shame of being humiliated in front of not only Officer Baxter, but also the handsome new detective.

  And yet, Winnifred couldn’t get the image of that revolver out of her mind. At least, she thought it was a revolver. I know I’m right. My instincts can’t be that far off, can they? She allowed her fingers to trail the black fence rails surrounding the red-brick prison on the first floor of her father’s precinct, not caring that she was soiling her fingertips. I could be that woman’s only hope. What if I give up and her family is forced to pay an outrageous ransom? They would become destitute, and their ruin would be on my hands.

  She leaned against a brick column, keeping her gaze on the second floor of the station as determination to prove her father wrong grew within her. Like Rowena, she felt destined not to be the damsel in distress, waiting on a man to save her, but the heroine. She would find the evidence her father needed, with or without his help.

  “Thorpe! Get in here.” The inspector’s voice cracked over the din of the precinct, sending the officers by the water station scattering to their desks.

  Dropping his paperwork, Jude tugged on his coat and adjusted his cuffs and collar, eager to impress his new captain. He stood in front of Inspector Wylde’s desk and clasped his hands behind his back. “Sir?”

  The inspector lifted the open file in his left hand as he tapped it with his right. “Judging from your records, you were one of the best in New York. Says here that you single-handedly captured one of the leading criminals in the city.” His brows rose as his lips pressed into a line. “Pretty impressive for an officer only twenty-four years old.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Jude tipped his head, pleased that he was being recognized on his first day.

  “So, I want you to follow my daughter.” He dropped the file on the desk and, setting his elbows on it, pressed his fingers together into a steeple point.

&
nbsp; “Your daughter?” Jude repeated tentatively, unsure if he had heard the inspector correctly.

  “My daughter has a tendency to exaggerate because she reads too many of those penny novels by that Valentine author, but she is observant. If she did indeed happen to see a man out there with a revolver kidnapping a woman for ransom, I want her protected.”

  “Pardon my asking, but if she is so observant, won’t she notice me trailing her?”

  Inspector Wylde chuckled. “That’s why I’ve chosen you to do the job. If you are as good as your records indicate, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Is this some sort of test? “No sir, it is not. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “I want you to protect her privacy. I trust my daughter and only need to hear a report from you if you find her in a potentially dangerous situation. I only wish for her to be safe and distracted until I have the real devil of the White City behind bars.” He set aside Jude’s file and reached for another, effectively dismissing him without another word.

  With a bow, Jude retrieved his hat and headed for the street, the sticky, warm breeze greeting him. He scowled as he pulled his hat over his brows. It was far too hot to be running around Chicago playing nanny, but if this was what it took to get on Inspector Wylde’s good side, he would do it.

  Spying Miss Wylde down the sidewalk, he stepped behind a street vendor who was selling baked potatoes. How does the man expect to make a living in this heat? He watched as she slapped her gloves in her palm before marching down the walkway with determination in her strides.

  Here we go. He ducked his head and strode after her, vigilant to keep an inconspicuous distance between them as he observed her hail a carriage and direct the driver to take her back to the fair.

  He lifted his arm, silently signaling to a nearby cab and, climbing in, instructed the driver to follow Miss Wylde’s carriage. When her carriage halted at the fair entrance on 59th Street, he waited in his cab for a moment as Winnifred followed the path to one of the ticket booths, presented what seemed to be a season pass, and hurried along before he stepped out and purchased a general admission ticket for a half dollar.